


Snatches of Sound

by bleep0bleep, rosepetals42



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actor Scott, Actually everyone makes a cameo as a famous actor/designer/director etc, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Angry Sex, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Celebrity AU, Fuckbuddies, Getting Together, M/M, Miscommunication, Musician Derek, Musician Stiles, Mutual Pining, Top Derek Hale, Top Stiles Stilinski, and stereking away, even tumblr is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 05:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8088586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosepetals42/pseuds/rosepetals42
Summary: Derek looks up to meet Stiles’ eyes, expecting to see a challenging smirk, some sort of derisive mocking expression, but Stiles just blinks at him, quirks his lips a little in a small smile, and Derek smiles back, just a little, and maybe this collaboration isn’t going to be so bad, after all.
In which Stiles and Derek are rival musicians who, somehow, through no fault of their own, are forced to work together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Snatches of Sound / Отголоски](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280415) by [robinjohnblake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinjohnblake/pseuds/robinjohnblake)



> This fic started over a year ago as a very late conversation about Derek Hale doing the Wrecking Ball video and Stiles coming back with a Bad Blood video. No, we do not remember much more than that. After a year, it has become considerably less ridiculous and very much longer than intended.
> 
> A HUGE Thank-You to Leda (andavs on tumblr and AO3) for providing the original mental image of derek hale on a wrecking ball, betaing, supporting, and attempting to keep us from making this ridiculously long. And, another HUGE thank-you to M (mad-madam-m on tumblr; mikkimouse on AO3) for the beta and catching the fact that we were calling it VeMo instead of VeVo for a YEAR.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who sent in song titles for us! If you don't see yours throughout this fic, know that we still appreciated it!
> 
> We hope you enjoy it! The plan is to post one chapter a day!

“Stiles.”

Stiles hums but doesn’t look up.

“ _Stiles_.”

“Coming,” he manages, still pressing buttons on his stupid phone, which won’t load because it _never_ loads and he probably should buy a new one but, he just wants—

“STILES!”

“I just need to check!” Stiles whines.

“You checked fifteen minutes ago,” Scott says. “And if you want to actually make this music video, you need to get to makeup. Like… five minutes ago.”

“Alright, alright,” Stiles says, standing. He keeps his eyes on his phone though, knowing that Scott will get him to makeup safely.

Predictably, Scott does just that. He sighs a little, but then loops his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and steers him down the hall. Stiles briefly drops his head to Scott’s shoulder in thanks and then _focuses._

Because Derek freaking Hale just set the VeVo record. Because Derek freaking Hale has a fanbase the size of a small continent. There’s the old timers who listened to the _Hale Pack_ back when they were kids, who know Derek Hale as an adorable, cheeky little ten-year-old who sometimes went sharp but danced his way through the notes anyway. And then there’s the new Derek Hale fans, the tweens and teens and young adults who hear Derek Hale’s slower, soulful melodies and just _swoon_.

It’s unfair. And it means that, even though their albums came out on the same day, Derek Hale is crushing Stiles in sales. Even though it’s the beginning of summer. Even though that _should_ mean that his new slightly electronica-still-mostly-indie sound should be crushing it. Stiles’ music is _made_ for beaches. Hale’s music is made for like… eating ice cream alone in your room after a breakup.

It’s not summer music. Derek Hale should not be winning.

“He’s only winning because he got his video out first,” Stiles tells Scott as his best friend yanks him away from crashing into a wall. “I mean— his managers must have _known_ my album was better— but, _oh my god_ , he just did it! He just broke the record!”

“I thought he was still 45,000 views away?” Scott says, briefly halting them to look over Stiles’ shoulder.

“That was twelve minutes ago! Apparently that was enough time!”

Stiles scowls. The video wasn’t even that good. Just overly-artsy shots of Derek Hale, wearing a tank top and jeans, strumming his stupid guitar in random-ass places. No one takes their guitar _on the actual airplane._ You can’t even play it up there! The strings would break!

“Don’t worry, dude,” Scott says, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder. “Once this video comes out, you’ll get the satisfaction of beating _his_ record!”

Stiles considers. Then smirks.

_His_ video is going to be awesome. Stiles basically put out a mass text message to all his friends in the entertainment world and, more importantly, had _Scott_ , his best friend from high school turned Oscar-winning actor do the same. Together, they’d gotten an alarming amount of people to agree to be in his newest music video.

It may not bring in the older crowd that Hale has, but with such names as Liam Dunbar, Mason Hewitt, and Hayden Romero swinging by for cameos (not to mention that he had gotten _Lydia Martin_ agree to direct), he wouldn’t need that older demographic. This song would have everyone under the age of thirty watching it on repeat.

The Album of the Year award isn’t lost yet.

Not on his watch.

 

* * *

 

Derek stares at his computer screen, scowls, and then slams it shut.

“It’s gimmicky,” he announces to no one in particular. “Getting everyone to be in his video like that. It’s… people will see right through it.” Derek doesn’t even understand the plot of the video— there were superheroes? Villains? Lots of costumes and fighting and huge name stars. Name dropping, that’s what it is.

It’s too early in the morning for this and, more than that, Derek just doesn’t _care_.

He loves music, he really does. Even after his family died, he had never managed to stop. Not completely. Even though for almost three years, it just _hurt_ rather than helped, he kept at it. He wrote songs in the night when he couldn’t sleep and spent days playing guitar until his fingers bled and when he didn’t have the energy for that, he still blasted his old favorites so loud that he wouldn’t hear the phone ringing off the hook or the knocks that came to his door wanting to know “his side” of the story.

He loves music and maybe he even appreciates that Peter eventually managed to convince him that recording and putting out albums and music videos was a good idea again but he doesn’t… he just can’t see the point in these things.

So what if this new kid— Stiles Stilinski (and honestly, what kind of stage name is that?)— so what if his video with all his popular friends breaks the VeVo record? So what if his surface-level, upbeat, cliche summer song takes off? So what if people on the Internet are raving about his uncanny ability to blend different styles into something unique and interesting, the likes of which haven’t been seen since a local family band took off and—

“No one will watch that,” Derek mutters again.

“Derek.” Peter sounds exasperated. It’s not exactly a new tone for him. “People _are_ watching. He just beat your record. By a lot.”

“What?” Derek growls. “I just set that ten days ago!”

“He’s also setting the record for how fast someone can set the record,” Peter adds. He sounds almost happy. Derek glares at him.

“Fine,” he grumbles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. Even if Stilinski’s song is a blend of other people’s hard work and his video is just full of his stupid young friends and most people out there are only watching to catch a glimpse of their favorite _actor_. “Whatever.”

“He’s popular,” Peter continues. “And rumor is he only put together that music video to beat you.”

Derek settles for grunting. He doesn’t have anything else to say about this.

“The media is calling it a feud,” Peter says. He sounds almost gleeful.

“It’s not a feud,” Derek says. “I don’t even know him. I’ve never talked to him. We are in _completely_ different genres of music.”

As in, he is in a genre of music that relies on _talent and skill_ and Stilinski’s is based off of a computer.

“Well, that’s about to change,” Peter says and Derek’s heart sinks. He never should have allowed Peter to be his manager. Never.

“What did you do?”

“You’re going on the _Today Show_ ,” Peter says. “In two days.”

Derek sighs. He hates talk shows.

“And you’re going on with Stilinski.”

“ _What_?”

 

* * *

 

Apparently, the media has truly bought into the idea that he and Stilinski hate each other.

At least, that’s what he has to assume, seeing as he had been given a separate dressing room from the other artist and someone had been in to remind him that cursing was _not_ allowed on air and that Stilinski’s mother was also deceased so not to take any shots there. Derek scowls at this instruction, folding his arms and glaring at the unfortunate P.A. Honestly, did they not know Derek’s history? In what world would he _ever_ voluntarily bring up family? Ever?

It’s annoying and it makes Derek feel like he’s being treated like some kind of angry animal— like a rabid wolf or something— but at least he gets to be alone before the shoot, gets to take a few deep breaths and remind himself that he does appreciate his fans and that they appreciate when he takes the time to do these stupid shows. Plus the more his album makes, the more he can pay his touring band and his backup singers (because unlike stupid Stiles “electronic music” Stilinski, he _has_ those).

“Alright, Mr. Hale, this way—”

Lights, applause, comfortable couches— four hosts, one Stiles Stilinski, an excited studio audience— Derek is… well, not pumped. But he’s ready.

He can do this.

Derek manages to smile during the slew of introductions and shake Stilinski’s hand while looking semi-polite.

Well, the _Today Show_ is clearly going for the Feud Angle because the first words out of Matt Lauer’s mouth are:

“Well, it is really nice of you both to come on our show this morning. We know this is a little bit of an odd situation.”

Cue a round of polite laughter from the other hosts. Derek tries to laugh along. Luckily, they don’t give either of them time to say anything.

Natalie steps in. “For our viewers who don’t know the situation, Derek here broke the VeVo Video record— that’s the record for how many times a video is viewed in the first 24 hours after its release— twelve days ago. A record that had been in place for nearly a year!”

There’s a round of applause from the audience. Derek nods graciously.

“Yes, yes,” Willie says. “But— _but_ only ten days after that, Stiles— am I saying that right?”

Derek has been avoiding looking at the younger musician but he sees Stilinski’s head go up and down in a cheerful nod.

“Stiles’ new video for _I’ll Blame The Weather (But Not You),_ broke _that_ record. By quite a bit actually.”

“Almost half a million views,” Stilinski adds cheekily.

Derek doesn’t look but he knows, he just _knows_ the kid is smirking. He scowls.

There’s another round of polite laughter from the hosts— polite and maybe a bit nervous this time. It’s one thing to be given prime access to two feuding music stars; it’s another to have them start fighting in your studio.

“Yes, well,” Natalie continues. “Let’s start with Derek, since he did break the record first with _Forget Me Not._ Derek, how did you feel about breaking the record? And then what was your reaction when it was broken so quickly?”

Derek relaxes, if only because that’s a question he had prepared for.

“I was really surprised, actually,” he says, shifting to put his foot on his thigh so he can fiddle with his shoelaces as he talks. “I mean, I never expected it to be so popular at all, since I haven’t— I haven’t played music professionally since I was a teenager, so… yeah, it was just really cool that people liked it. I mean, 4.5 million views. That’s… pretty incredible.”

_Downplay the record_ , Peter had told him. _This was your first album in five years. It doesn’t matter that Stilinski broke your record because you didn’t even expect to get it in the first place._

“Most definitely an amazing feat,” Al Roker says to Derek.

Derek nods, hoping that’s enough and they’ll let that one go, that they either focus on Stilinski or ask him about something else, but right at that moment, Stilinski—

Well, it could be a cough. But it sounds more like a snort. Or maybe even a chuckle.

Whatever it is, it draws Derek’s attention and he turns to see what this kid has to say.

“And Stiles! Your own video, the newest number one, has had everyone talking about everything from the costumes to the star-studded cast…”

Roker is rambling on about Stilinski’s new video, and the other hosts are agreeing, talking animatedly about it, and Stilinski… Stilinski doesn’t seem to be paying attention.

Stilinski is sprawled out on the opposite couch, his legs spread obscenely wide, obviously having never had a lesson in public relations. He looks like— he looks like—

_A rock star,_ Derek’s mind helpfully supplies.

Tight gray skinny jeans. A black dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal pale collarbones, practically falling off his shoulder. Stiles Stilinski just oozes confidence and that irreverent bad-boy appeal. He’s wearing a snapback backwards with some skateboard logo on it. He’s cool and _“with it,”_ as Peter says.

“You could do a lot to learn from how he projects his image,” Peter had said a few days ago, turning a laptop screen towards Derek, showing charts and graphs and social media things and how many people retweeted Stiles’ “I love bagels!” thing and “socks ;)”

What did that even mean? Derek doesn’t even understand the Twitter. He has one, but he’s only gone as far as introducing himself to his fans. He lets Erica handle it, for the most part.

Stilinski, Derek’s mind helpfully (or not so helpfully) recalls, is very openly bisexual. Right there on his website’s main profile section. He’s just… so unapologetic about who he is.

_He’s going to be a rock star,_ Derek thinks, watching Stilinski’s hands as he cuts them through the air as he talks. _And I… I’m going to be a has been if I don’t get ‘with it.’_

“It really is an incredible video,” Matt says. “And the response has just been—”

“Awesome,” Stilinski says when Matt fumbles for the right word. He’s smirking again, all cockiness with just enough joking mixed in that it doesn’t come off as completely rude.

“Well, I guess if you can use your friends to boost the ratings,” Derek drawls. Though Peter has trained him in the proper way to act on camera (not to mention the scores of acting lessons), he can’t help the smug tone that creeps into his voice.

Stilinski’s eyes narrow, and he shifts, mouth twisting for a moment before relaxing.

“I decided that millions of people don’t need to just stare at my _face_ the whole time,” Stilinski says, voice pitched just so that he _could_ be bantering. Derek knows he’s not. “You know, since that might get _boring_.”

“See,” Derek says, glancing at the hosts, pretending to include them, even though he doesn’t care what they have to say right now, he needs to make sure Stilinski understands where he’s coming from. This probably a bad idea, but his blood is running hot. Really, _boring?_ Derek is not, and never has been boring.

Part of Derek’s brain is telling him to stop, but his mouth just keeps going. The hosts don’t stop him either; they’re all watching with varying degrees of excitement and horror. “I would rather let the music speak for itself,” Derek says, looking right in Stilinski’s smug little face. “The video doesn’t need to be… over the top because people can just enjoy listening.”

“In this day and age,” Stilinski snaps, leaning forward. “I think people are capable of doing both. Watching a kick-ass video _and_ enjoying the freaking _awesome_ song. They don’t need to be limited to an _old_ style of music that—”

“Classic,” Derek interrupts. “The word you’re looking for is _classic_.”

“Now, boys,” one of the hosts tries, but Derek doesn’t take his eyes of Stilinski. God, the kid is just winding him up and what a _stupid_ approach to music, to worry about anything _other_ than music and—

“Oh, yeah,” Stilinski says, somehow using his entire body to roll his eyes. “Because living in the past is _exactly_ what music is about.”

“Better than diluting it with overrated _actors_ and explosions,” Derek replies.

And then he’s gone too far.

He knows that because the next instant Stiles Stilinski is _rising from the couch_ and Derek’s mouth falls open because he has no idea how to react. If they were in private, sure, he would probably stand as well but a distant voice is telling him he’s done enough damage and he can’t _actually_ get in a fight on _live national television_. So he forces himself to stay seated, leans back as if he doesn’t have a care in the world and—

“You arrogant—” Stilinski starts and Roker stands to try to intercept him, but Stilinski steps neatly around him, not quite shoving but not stopping either. “People worked _hard_ on that video and how dare you insult—”

Stilinski trips over a piece of rug and lands neatly in Derek’s lap.

The crowd goes wild.

 

* * *

 

Stiles never liked Derek Hale. He grew up listening to the Hale Pack because they were his mother’s favorite band and even at eight years old, he couldn’t help but compare himself to Derek freaking Hale, spent hours trying to learn those stupid dance moves but couldn’t, and now—

Now, he _hates_ Derek Hale.

Derek Hale is the bane of his existence. Derek Hale has stupid eyebrows and is stupidly muscular and for some reason the goddamn Internet is _obsessed_ with him.

Since that disaster of an interview three days ago, his inbox has been _flooded_ with messages and literally every single one of them has to do with Derek Hale. And it would be one thing if they were messages of protest, or defending his honor against the low blow that Hale took at him and his friends on _live television_ , or vowing to never listen to the stupid, over-played hack again.

But they aren’t that. They aren’t that at all.

Instead, Lydia and Liam and Mason and _everyone_ has taken to sending him links to ridiculous websites with _ridiculous_ theories.

Theories about him and Derek.

Together.

Apparently it started in the Tumblr world (and, dammit, Stiles _likes_ Tumblr usually) with someone giffing the moment when Stiles fell _into Derek’s lap_ and adding the caption: “look how Derek’s arms wrap around him!”

And then the reblogs had happened. And the tags. The stupid, stupid tags of people who thought it was acceptable to say things like: “#fuuuuck #so much sexual tension #honestly you two #get a room” or “#do you think they even remembered they were on camera?? #not that they would care #now THERE’S a porno I want to see!” or, worst of all, “#stiles would use the excuse ‘accidentally fell on your dick’ and MEAN it”

Before he knows it, they have a hashtag.

It gets worse, though.

“ANGRY FEUD OR PASSIONATE LOVE AFFAIR?” Perez Hilton writes, doodling hearts over the pair of them on opposite couches. “RUMORS OF A HALE-STILINSKI RELATIONSHIP SOAR,” reports Starz Magazine. “CLOSE FRIEND OF STILES STILINSKI CLAIMS THAT HALE IS ‘JUST HIS TYPE’,” EW-online prints. (And then links the source. And Stiles clicks the link and sees it leads to fucking _Greenberg’s_ blog which he runs purely on the merit that he used to know Stiles and Scott in high school and honestly, Coach was right, Greenberg is the _worst._ )

The whole thing is ridiculous. Look, _anything_ can be made sexual if you put it in black and white and slow it down. He had _been there_ , he had _lived it_ and there was no way that Derek ever checked him out to the extent that these gifs seem to be implying. Stiles would have _noticed_ if a man who looked like Derek Hale had looked at him like that.

Hale is straight, too. That’s the other aspect of this whole thing that everyone seems to be forgetting. So it doesn’t matter that the gifs seem to show Hale running his eyes down Stiles’ body or swallowing when Stiles made impact or sliding his hands to Stiles’ hips and tightening before pushing him off.

And he’s watched the recording (hate-watched, obviously) like a thousand times. He’s pretty sure most of Tumblr is using some fancy manip skills to do something to the moment.

The only part of it that’s even a semi-true is that Hale really hadn’t freaked out, hadn’t shoved him off. Instead, he’d sort of frozen and the hosts had laughed about something and cut to commercial, leaving Stiles still sprawled in Derek’s lap. And a second ago he had been angry but now he’s so embarrassed he wants to _die._

It’s only made worse by the fact that Derek appeared to be too surprised to do anything but gently help him stand again, still sort of staring. Stiles had been forced to mutter apologies (though he _didn’t_ mean all of it because, dammit, Derek is a _jerk_ ) and then they’d left.

And now it’s all over the internet.

“Who made this,” Stiles grumbles, chucking his headphones at the laptop screen, playing another one of those videos.

“This is the video directly from the _Today Show_ website,” Scott says. “Are you okay, dude? I thought you always said any kind of press scandal was good for your image. You loved it when like, everyone thought that we were dating. And when everyone thought you were dating Heather. Or Danny.”

“That’s different! We weren’t actually dating!”

“Are you saying you’re dating Derek?” Scott frowns. “Dude, I thought you would have told me. We tell each other everything. I even told you about the time that Allison and I—”

“I’m not dating Derek!” Stiles says hysterically, scrolling angrily. “He’s nothing but a pretty face with decent guitar skills and can write catchy songs! He’s just… he’s nobody! And I beat him, Scott. It doesn’t matter if I _accidentally_ fell on top of him. I still won! So there- suck it, Hale! I mean, really, just look at his stupid face and his beard and—”

Scott blinks at him. “Okay, dude. Uh... do you want to be alone with your… laptop…”

Stiles turns to look at his computer screen, which now is frozen on a manipulated photo where someone has turned one of Stiles’ red carpet photos at the VMAs last year and some photoshoot of Derek’s into them kissing passionately.

“AAAAAGH!” Stiles seizes the thing and chucks it against the wall.

 

* * *

 

“Deeee-reek.”

Derek sighs and looks at his door. He’s going to have to get it sometime, he knows.

It’s been a week. He’s managed to avoid Erica’s calls but now she is _literally_ banging on his door.

Ugh. Fine.

“What?” he demands, flinging the door open. Predictably, Erica shoulders her way past him even though he tries not to let her.

“Just checking on you!” she says, looking around his apartment as if checking for evidence. “What have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” Derek grunts. She doesn’t need to know he’s been planning furiously, doesn’t need to know that he has decided to release a second video this summer for the sole purpose of wiping that stupid smirk off Stilinski’s stupid face.

“So you haven’t been having angry phone sex with Stilinski?” she asks.

Derek glares at her.

Erica smirks and drops her voice an octave. “Take off your clothes, Stilinski. Yes, _right now_. Now stick one finger—”

“ _Erica_ ,” Derek growls. He does not need that mental image. At all. If anything he needs _less_ images of Stiles in his head. His brain has been oversaturated, probably because if you type his name into Google these days, the _only_ thing that comes up is pictures of him and Stiles together. And that’s just on Google Images. He doesn’t even want to know what would happen if he checked out some of the other websites that Erica is constantly telling him to join.

Erica laughs. “Well, there goes my wish for the summer. Imagine it, Der, you and Stiles-”

“Erica!” Derek interrupts again. “What do you _want_?”

“I’m just checking on you, Derrie,” she says, raising her hands in a show of innocence that Derek knows won’t last. “You’ve barely seen daylight in six days.”

“I’m— I’ve been working,” Derek replies.

“On what?” Erica demands. “The album is out, the video is done, your first tour date isn’t until Labor Day weekend. You should be out partying right now!”

“I’m…” Derek shuffles nervously. Erica directs all his videos. She’s going to have to find out eventually. “I’m thinking about doing another video.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “You’re _what_?”

“Another video,” Derek repeats. “For _Maybe Tomorrow.”_

“To be released…”

“This summer.”

Erica goes very still. Derek hunches his shoulders. This is going to go poorly. He can tell.

“Derek, are you—” she blinks, shakes her head. “Are you trying to _re-break_ the VeVo record?”

“No.”

“Are you _actually feuding_ with Stiles Stilinski?”

“No.”

Erica stares at him so long he knows she can see the lie all over his face.

Then she sighs, big and put upon as if she doesn’t love helping him plan his videos, as if she didn’t do it for free the first time around until Derek insisted on paying.

“Alright,” she says, grabbing a pen and paper. “What do you want it to be like?”

Derek flushes, remembering.

It had been two days ago when he found the video on an old blog run by some kid named Greenberg. It’s an early interview with Stilinski, still in college but a rising name already, passionately talking about how powerful music could be, how he believed it was the role of musicians to push the boundaries of art and expose deeper themes—

_It’s not just about_ reflecting _culture, you know,_ Stilinski says, taking off his stupid Mets baseball hat and putting it back on backwards. _Good musicians,_ real _musicians, they do more than that. They can actually change it. That’s what I want to do. Not just reflect or entertain, but_ change _. Push the boundaries._

Derek blinks and drags himself back to the present.

“It’s…” he starts, blushing. “I think it’s going to be a little different.”

“Okay, what are we thinking for wardrobe?”

“Uh… none.”

 

* * *

 

Red carpets are always a little bit too much for Stiles, if he’s being honest.

His ADHD usually kicks in and there are so many flashing lights and _so much_ screaming. He still always goes because he is trying to be a rockstar and rockstars go to Red Carpet Events when their best friend from high school is starring in Marvel movies, but it’s always a little overwhelming.

Especially now that his video is out, his song has been #1 for five weeks in a row, and apparently he is either in a feud or a love affair with Derek Hale.

“Is it true you and Hale text constantly?” someone yells at him.

Earlier, the questions had all been for Scott, the star of the movie, but Scott’s signing autographs right now and Stiles is hanging back, letting him have his moment. He ignores the reporters and the clamor of the fans, but they don’t stop. “Are you in a secret relationship, Stiles? When did it start? Have you been dating this whole time?”

He waves and keeps walking.

Of course, they don’t stop. If anything, they get worse.

He smiles and pretends he doesn’t hear the questions over the noise of the crowd. At least that’s easy enough to manage. Smile and nod and focus on no one and keep moving.

Above all: keep moving.

Of course, sometimes you also have to pause to take selfies.

It’s at this vulnerable point when someone takes the opportunity to yell at him, “Did you hear that Hale is recording a new video?”

Stiles makes the mistake of blinking and focusing on the girl with blue hair who apparently knows things because, no, he hadn’t heard that. He had suspected that his management was trying to let things cool down and with Scott about to leave for his press tour and Stiles done for the summer, they had been playing video games almost non-stop.

“Apparently it’s coming out in _two weeks_!” the girl says.

Stiles frowns and then blinks. No, wait. This is probably just a stupid rumor.

“Okay!” he tells her, hyper aware that there are a thousand people taking pictures and videos of him right now. He can’t help a smirk though. If that’s true, it’s hilarious. The mighty and above all competition Derek Hale scrambling to put together a _second_ summer video. “Well, we’ll see if he actually pulls it off this time!”

Stiles doesn’t mean it to be nice or flirty but when he gets home, according to the Internet, that’s exactly how it comes off.

Goddammit.

 

* * *

 

Derek swallows nervously, clutching the hem of his robe.

“You don’t have to do this,” Erica says primly. “I mean, I’m the last person to advise against nakedness, and you know that I fully support your bare ass anywhere, but don’t you think this song… the theme of the video… is a little _much?”_

Derek thinks about Stiles’ smirk, the way his tongue slides across his lips, how fucking smug he looked when his song was named number one. What was even up with the title? Something about the weather, something ridiculously long that had nothing to do with the song at all.

Derek won’t be outdone. Not now, not while he’s just on the road to getting back on track.

And if he learned anything from showbiz, it’s that sex— always sells. And while it’s the launch factor for this, Derek actually thought about this for awhile, since _Maybe Tomorrow_ is about truth and identity and hope and—

“Okay. I’m ready,” Derek says.

He drops the robe.

There’s a collective hush on set. Derek can feel everyone’s eyes on him, on his naked body— he’s here, he’s ready, he’s vulnerable. He wants to do this. He wants Stiles to eat his fucking words. _See if he pulls it off,_ fuck him. He wants— he wants Stiles to look at his body and be awed at how much Derek is willing to risk it all.

And maybe Derek wants Stiles to look at him differently, think of him as someone separate than the uniformed prim kid singing chaste show tunes with his family.

He wants to push the boundaries.

Derek closes his eyes, and sings.

 

* * *

 

Stiles’ phone keeps ringing, chirping, and beeping, and it won’t stop. His notifications are going haywire. Everyone is all about Derek Hale’s new music video— and _what_ a video it was. Stiles grabs his pillow and flops into it. He’s not… he’s not… he has mixed feelings about it. Sure, he should be frustrated that Derek managed to bump his own video down from the number one spot— and after all that hard work, wrangling so many different talents— but there’s another problem.

Stiles _loves_ the video.

Sure, he knows that everyone and the Internet is talking about Derek’s abs, his back muscles, the 1.5 inches of ass crack that they got to see, but it’s more than just Derek’s naked body in the song— it was the lyrics, the full-fledged way Derek just let himself go into the song.

_Maybe Tomorrow_ has always been Stiles’ favorite on Derek’s new album. Not that he would ever admit that he’s listened to said album, but… to be quite honest, he really likes Derek’s music. At least, he does when he isn’t letting the inherent competitiveness of the music business get to his head. And this song means a lot, especially about being true to yourself, being open with the world. Stiles thinks as a teenager, he would have found it incredibly comforting when he was struggling with his own sexuality. Even though that’s not explicitly what it’s about. It… fits. And somehow that makes Stiles like it even more. That it can somehow be meaningful and open to interpretation at the same time.

He knows the song is one of those songs that will live throughout the ages. It’s got that classic ballad feel, as well as that range that karaoke lovers adore— and it’s just— heartfelt and _good._

Stiles grabs his phone to turn it off, groaning when he sees a new email from Allison. She always types in all caps when she’s sending him official agent business so Stiles doesn’t miss it, which makes for interesting subjects sometimes. The subject today is: “HALE’S #1 AGAIN— I’VE GOT THE PERFECT PLAN.”

Ugh. Whatever.

Stiles turns off the phone, closes his eyes, and thinks about Derek singing.

 

* * *

 

Derek does not really know how this happened. One moment he was riding high, basking in the glow of his VeVo victory, reading the news sites and blogs with _joy_ for once (especially the one written by the Greenberg kid. It’s honestly hilarious to read the long treatise on why Stilinski was robbed when it was Derek who got to do the robbing.)

One moment, he was happy and even Peter was satisfied for the time being and then—

And then Peter disappeared for two days, failed to answer any of his texts, and came back with a _plan_.

And apparently that plan was for Derek and Stilinski to write a single _together_. Like _collaborate_.

Which is a nightmare waiting to happen because the last time Derek had collaborated with someone, it was his family. It was his father writing crazy basslines and his mother coming up with the lyrics and Laura choreographing the dancing and—

Derek doesn’t collaborate. Not anymore. Certainly not with Stiles Stilinski. The kid who posts samples of upcoming beats on his Instagram and asks for honest opinions. The kid who (rumor has it) does a huge chunk of his composing on a regular piano and then later picks instruments and layers it all together. The kid who _writes lyrics last_ because the song is more important.

_“I thought we were feuding,” he tries, glaring at Peter. “I thought you liked that.”_

_“Old news,” Peter says. “People are bored by feuds now. They like to think it’s just the media making something out of nothing. They don’t_ believe _like they used to. This is better. Much better.”_

Derek had tried to say that he didn’t want _better_ , that his video was #1 in history and his album was doing just _fine_ and he was _above better_ but Peter insisted.

And now, here he was. Sitting in an office at one of their label executive’s extravagant studio, waiting for Stilinski to come in and sign the paperwork that means they will have to _work together_. He’s trying to just sit and ignore it all, tells himself that he doesn’t have to be polite because _he’s_ the one doing Stiles a favor but—

Derek stands up when the door opens, suddenly nervous despite everything. Stilinski walks in with his entourage, finds a seat and doesn’t even whip off his sunglasses. Derek glances at Peter, who shrugs and goes to shakes hands with Stiles’ agent, an intimidating woman named Allison.

“Alright, so here’s the contract. We’ll release one single of a duet that both Stiles and Derek write together, we’ll have a video doing a behind the scenes of them working together, a music video, and MTV wants it debuted live at their music awards.”

The two agents ignore everyone else, working away at the contracts, and then pens are uncapped, and Derek and Stiles are both signing away their promises.

Derek looks up to meet Stiles’ eyes, expecting to see a challenging smirk, some sort of derisive mocking expression, but Stiles just blinks at him, quirks his lips a little in a small smile, and Derek smiles back, just a little, and maybe this collaboration isn’t going to be so bad, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the great feedback and coming along on the ride with us! Lots of sexytime shenagians going on here and there are MORE TAGS NOW. Ahahahaha.

The damn pen is back in Stilinski’s mouth. And now he is twirling that fucking pink tongue around it, practically fellating it—

“Stop that.” Derek pushes the blank pieces of paper across the table. They haven’t even agreed on a key to write the song in, let alone what kind of song.

“Stop what?” Stilinski says, blinking innocently up at him. The look is sincere— he really doesn’t know what he’s doing with his mouth.

“Just— here. I’ll write. You talk, I’ll just… put down on paper our notes and stuff.” Derek reaches for the pen in Stilinski’s mouth. Anything to make it stop. He can’t afford to get hard here— the walls are all glass, for fuck’s sake!

“No way, dude. Like I actually _trust you_ to write down all the genius that is about to happen—”

Derek grabs Stilinski by the shirt and pulls him close, glaring at him. He plucks the pen out of his lips. “You. Are. Obscene. I can’t...I can’t concentrate! Just stop. Please.”

Stilinski narrows his eyes, licking his lips. “What are you talking about, obscene, have you even heard my music? _You’re_ the one who spent your last music video is entirely _naked_.”

Derek huffs in frustration, dropping Stilinski back in the chair, grumbling to himself as the other musician picks up his own notepad and finally uses the pen for its intended purpose as he starts taking notes. Derek returns to his own notes, scribbling ideas and then looks up to check Stiles’ progress.

He regrets it immediately. Stiles has found another pen and is sucking on it, like he needs something to lick at and suckle. His lips are wet and shining and Derek can see the hot pink heart of his tongue, and when did Derek start referring to him as _Stiles_ in his head, instead of Stilinski?

No, no, he can’t be doing this, he needs to keep distance, keep professional— fuck, what is Stiles doing with his _mouth?_

Derek slams his notepad on the table. “Stop before I want to put something else in your mouth.”

Stiles’ jaw falls open and the pen clatters to the desk.

“You want to… you want to put your dick in my mouth?” Stiles says breathlessly.

Derek blinks. “I— uh— we have a song to write,” he says. He knows his face is turning red and he grips his own pen, finding control. It breaks in half. Derek looks up, but Stiles isn’t in his seat anymore, he’s—

“Come on,” Stiles says, wide-eyed, pulling at Derek’s elbow.

“What?”

“This stupid room is made of glass, and all our agents and everyone is outside. Come _on.”_

Derek lets Stiles lead him through the house, up two flights of stairs and into one of the studio lounges. It’s brightly lit, with a lovely skylight and huge L-shaped couch in the center of the room. And—

“Alright,” Stiles says and Derek blinks because Stiles is suddenly _taking off his shirt_. “Look, I don’t want to work with you, you don’t want to work with me. I certainly don’t want to work with you for any longer than necessary and I’m sure you feel the same, so if this is going to get us out of that goddamn room then let’s do this.”

“Do what?”

And then Stiles is on his knees in front of him, licking his lips. “You want me, right? I’m obscene, I’m distracting, and I’m gonna make you come so we can get some work done. How’s that sound?”

Derek nods weakly, unable to do anything else in the face of Stiles’ liquid gold eyes, flashing with determination. He _does_ want, so much.

Stiles pushes him down on the couch, and then he’s yanking down Derek’s fly and it’s all happening so fast—

Stiles noses at the base of Derek’s cock, licking up the shaft with quick decisiveness. Derek’s been half-hard all day, watching Stiles do ridiculous things with his mouth, and it takes approximately _zero_ seconds for him to get completely hard because Stiles is _not_ playing around. By the time Derek’s brain has caught up to the situation and has accepted that this isn’t some feverish sex fantasy he’s having back in the glass room, his cock is almost completely surrounded by hot, wet heat.

Derek groans as Stiles does something probably illegal with his tongue. Stiles smirks around his cock, eyes sparkling with triumph, his lips red and shiny, wrapped tight around him. It’s an image he’s fantasized about for sure, but the reality almost too much to handle. Derek’s had blowjobs before, sure, guys and girls trying to get him off, going about it dutifully, but this— _this—_

Stiles’ eyes are closed, and he hums around Derek’s length, the vibration sending tingles down Derek’s spine. He swallows Derek down to the base, worshipping every inch with his tongue, and Derek just wants to hold on for dear life. Without thinking about it, Derek reaches to thread his fingers through Stiles hair, not to pull, but it looks soft and he wants to stroke it, tell Stiles how good this is, how he didn’t expect to be here, how he likes this so much, and they can move forward as friends, or maybe even—

“Don’t even think about it,” Stiles growls at him, lifting one of his hands from Derek’s thigh to smack his hand away. Derek has never seen anyone look so angry while on his knees giving a blowjob. It actually gives him pause for a moment and he shifts, about to tell Stiles to just stop, that he doesn’t need this.

But, then Stiles sucks him back down and Derek grasps into the pillows of the couch, searching for purchase because he has to grab _something_ and _oh my God_.

Stiles is relentless, alternating between quick and hard suction and a slow teasing with his tongue, dragging Derek into blissful oblivion.

“Stiles, I’m—” The warning is stilted and Derek barely gets the words out before his body tenses up, but Stiles doesn’t stop, just keeps bobbing his head, keeping that tight hot pressure steady until—

Derek sees stars.

The orgasm tears through him until he’s boneless, and Derek can barely breathe. He collapses back onto the couch, catching his breath. He’s about to offer to blow Stiles too, or a handjob at least, but by the time he can see again, Stiles is rising smoothly to his feet and headed for the bathroom. There’s the sound of running water and spitting and Derek desperately tries to get himself together because Stiles is probably going to be back out in a second.

But then a few moments pass and Stiles still hasn’t emerged. Derek isn’t rude, he really wants to get Stiles off as well, and not just to return the favor— he just _wants_ to.

Derek steps closer to hear the unmistakable sounds of skin on skin.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles grunts, voice throaty and low.

The door is ajar, and Stiles hasn’t even bothered to pull his tight pants all the way down, just enough that he could get a hand around himself. His head is thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, hand moving furiously, another hand tweaking his nipple.

Derek wants to stay, to watch, to offer to— what? He can’t, really. Obviously Stiles had wanted privacy to jerk off by himself.

Derek is still a little confused from the whole whirlwind encounter, to be honest, but he’s not about to intrude on Stiles right now. He goes back to the couch and sits down, taking a few deep breaths. He’s still feeling a little lightheaded, and coming back to reality is a bit difficult since he can hear Stiles pleasuring himself quite clearly.

Before too long there’s a loud groan and a sigh of relief. Derek’s dick twitches with interest, and he wonders what Stiles looks like when he comes. He looks back in his lap, where he’s starting to get hard again, even though it has been _years_ since he had the kind of orgasm that’s made him lose the plot like that.

Stiles walks out of the bathroom, zipping himself up. He scoffs at Derek sitting there dumbstruck on the bed and tosses a towel at him. “You straight boys are all the same,” he mutters darkly. He picks his shirt off the floor and throws it back on. It’s inside out.

Derek cleans himself up hastily with the towel, flushing with embarrassment that he’d just been sitting here with his pants undone and here Stiles is, already pulled together. Even with his shirt on inside out, he still looks effortlessly cool. And why did he take off his shirt anyways? Did he want to impress Derek with his chest? (He did. Stiles has really perky nipples.) Or was he… expecting Derek to come all over him?

Derek zips himself up, trying not to think about it. “I’m not straight,” he says defensively.

Stiles raises his eyebrows at that but he doesn’t respond, just swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. Fuck, if Derek though his mouth looked obscene before, Stiles looks absolutely _wrecked_ right now, lips all red and puffy.

“We done? Are you going to be able to focus now? Because I’d really like to be home sometime this week.” His voice is hoarse.

Stiles should record an album with his voice sounding like _that_ , Derek thinks. Holy shit, that would sell, all low and raspy. Derek blinks and refocuses, opening his mouth to argue that he would be able to focus just fine if _someone_ wasn’t constantly in motion but—

Well, the guy _had_ just given him the blowjob of his life.

“You work on the music,” Derek grunts, standing and determined to be as nonchalant about this as Stiles. “I’ll write the lyrics.”

“Nothing too sappy,” Stiles demands, pulling on his shirt.

“My songs are not _sappy_ ,” Derek growls. “And if you could attempt to play more than eight notes, that would be awesome.”

For some reason, that makes Stiles laugh. He doesn’t snark back for once, merely turns towards the door.

“And your shirt is on inside out,” Derek mutters.

“Don’t care,” Stiles replies, not bothering to hold the door open for Derek as he exits. “I think I just had an idea!”

 

* * *

 

Okay, so, if pressed, Stiles would have said that he blew Derek in the name of their duet. Of course, that’s why he did it. It wasn’t because Derek Hale glowering was apparently a kink he didn’t know he had and for some reason (he blames his ADHD) a fucking manip of the two of them popped into his head and it _certainly_ wasn’t because Derek Hale snapping a pen in half was, hands down, the _hottest_ thing he had ever seen.

It was for the duet. It was so they could both focus.

He just didn’t expect it to work so well.

But it does. He and Derek return to that room and Derek stares out the window for a while before suddenly animating and starting to scribble words down on a paper. He doesn’t even seem to notice when Stiles starts humming to himself.

He looks good, concentrating like that. Not that he doesn’t look good all the time, but Derek’s _I’m not straight_ echoes in Stiles’ head now. Stiles had thought after Derek would pull some sort of no homo moment, insist that Stiles was just a convenient mouth or something, but the guy had actually looked kind of hurt when Stiles assumed he was straight. Stiles wants to know more about the guy he’s only known as America’s Sweetheart, wonders about Derek himself.

They’re not friends, though. And Stiles still can’t stand him, for… rivalry reasons.

He channels his curiosity into a melody, picking a key and sticking with it, humming to himself. The sound of Derek’s angry scrawls over paper should be distracting, but somehow they end up providing a beat in his head.

“Um,” Derek says and Stiles looks up, blinking as he realizes that an hour has gone by. “Here.”

He pushes a piece of paper towards Stiles and for the first time doesn’t look like he wants to murder someone.

In fact, he almost looks… nervous? He’s carefully not looking at Stiles and his left hand is curled in a fist, the beginnings of pink starting to spread across his cheeks.

It makes Stiles want to blow him all over again. And maybe not a quick one this time. Maybe one where Stiles drags it out and goes slow and teasing, bringing Derek right to the edge before backing off, sliding his mouth around to kiss Derek’s hips before slowly moving back down and—

“Oh,” he says, hoping that Derek thought he was just still thinking about the music. “Cool. Here’s the— here’s what I have so far.”

And then he turns his attention to Derek’s lyrics. He has to squint a little to make out Derek’s angry lettering but—

 _Song Title,_ the top line reads, and Stiles snorts at that, raising an eyebrow at Derek, who blushes even as he glares, but then he keeps reading and—

It is _gorgeous_.

Deep and meaningful and still somehow _lighter_ than his usual stuff (and Stiles has to wonder if he did that on purpose, so it would fit Stiles’ style a little bit better) and it is literally _stupid_ that Derek can sit and just come up with this in an hour. Stiles reads it and then re-reads it. And then stares.

“It’s just a first draft,” Derek mutters, clearly taking his silence as a negative. “I can—”

“Dude,” Stiles interrupts, forgetting for a moment that he is supposed to hate this guy. “This is great. I can— hold on, I need to change— I think I can add the drums in so that it—”

 

* * *

 

Through absolutely no fault of Stiles, it becomes a _thing_.

Derek’s lyrics can be beautiful and Stiles’ musical arrangement is obviously _awesome_ but there are still a few things that have to be worked out. And they don’t agree on _anything_. And just when they think they are done with the song at least, Derek comes in one morning and says that he had a different idea for the bridge and one thing leads to another, exploding into a huge argument.

The second time it happens, they are both yelling at each other, standing toe to toe in Stiles’ house in Malibu, because the one thing they did agree on was that working in that glass conference room in the studio was freaky. Stiles may have tapped Derek’s freakishly broad chest with the back of his hand and then—

Well, then Derek freaking Hale is grabbing him and yanking him forward and pulling him into — well, it’s not a kiss, not really, but their mouths are pressed together and Derek is biting on his bottom lip and if Stiles lets out a groan, well that’s hardly his fault.

He’d come to his senses after a minute and pulled back to continue yelling because _he is right, dammit,_ but Derek gets both their pants just low enough to rub their cocks together and then Derek’s got him in one of his massive hands. His hands are dry and rough, and it’s almost too fast to feel good but with Derek's angry muttering in his ear, Stiles is hopeless to do anything but hold on to Derek’s forearms, drop his head to Derek’s shoulder, and come hard enough that his knees go weak.

They managed to finish the song with no further incidents, but then they start work on what they want the _video_ to look like, at least so they can go to Lydia with an idea (and, oh, getting Derek to agree to let Lydia direct instead of Derek’s friend Erica Reyes— that had been another angry handjob session— though Stiles at least had lotion on hand).

The video brainstorming is a disaster. Stiles no longer understands how Derek came up with the video for _Maybe Tomorrow_ , he just doesn’t. Because Derek’s ideas are _terrible_ and he shoots down every single one of Stiles’ with nothing more than a “no” and when Stiles finally breaks and _asks_ the question, “Can you even _do_ anything with that mouth aside from say _no?_ ” he hadn’t meant it to be sexual but—

Well, he doesn’t complain when it ends up with him crowded against his refrigerator, pants bunched at his knees, Derek down in front of him, determined to prove what exactly he can do with his mouth.

He also doesn’t complain when he accidentally hitches his hips a little and Derek grunts. “Too advanced for you?” Stiles smirks, though he does step back to give Derek a bit of space. He knows it takes him a long time to work up to that and he really didn’t mean to—

Derek _growls_ , looks up at Stiles and his eyes convey a type of angry _challenge accepted_ that Stiles will never understand and then Derek is sucking him _all the way down_ and it’s honestly embarrassing how quickly Stiles comes after that. He doesn’t even mind when Derek rises and grinds against his stomach until he’s spilling all over Stiles’ shirt.

It just becomes a thing.

When they argue about costume choices, they somehow end up attempting to 69 and failing miserably at it. Stiles is proud to say he won that one— Derek gave up trying to suck Stiles off and just lay there helplessly because Stiles’ blowjob was superior. It totally rendered Derek unable to move for like, five minutes at least.

When Derek tries to say that Scott cannot make his usual cameo even though Scott is a _staple_ of Stilinski videos, Stiles takes him upstairs and eats him out until he _screams._ And agrees about Scott. A debate about whether or not the background singers should be autotuned results with Stiles on his back on the living room couch, Derek’s mouth around his cock and three fingers in his ass.

They don’t talk about it, though. Ever. The closest they get is in the silence of a Thursday afternoon, when they both lie panting on their backs, wearing only t-shirts, and the thought pops into his head that they are scheduled to film some “behind the scenes” of making of the duet and for some reason he just blurts:

“Well, I guess we won’t be including this in the extra footage.”

And Derek laughs.

Honest to God, laughs at him, showing off his ridiculous bunny teeth and that makes Stiles laugh in turn.

“No, probably not,” Derek says eventually, hand running over his jawline against his stubble. It’s almost peaceful and for a second Stiles is worried that they are going to have a _moment_.

But then, Derek is rolling over and moving to the bathroom.

“You’re still wrong about the key change, though,” he says. The tone is lighter, almost teasing. “I’ve been thinking about it and I’m not sure that—”

Stiles groans, but it’s more for show than anything. He can’t help notice the little swoop his stomach did when Derek turns around and gives him a sated little smile.

Fuck. This is trouble.

 

* * *

 

Derek doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s never had a casual relationship before. He’s never… well, had a normal relationship before. Paige might have counted, but they’d both been in the Mickey Mouse program together, and Disney Channel put all sorts of weird pressure on her, since she was the star of that wildly popular _Paige Tells It All_ show, and she needed to walk the fine line of provocative and Disney marketability. Their agents had promoted the hell out of their relationship when it started, telling both Derek and Paige it made good press, and when they started getting pressured to get married when Paige turned eighteen, it was incredibly uncomfortable. They had made better friends than a couple, in the end.

Derek had dated Jordan for a few months, but the label and Peter had explicitly said Derek couldn’t be out, and having their relationship in the closet was unfair for Jordan, who deserved someone he could holds hand with in public and introduce to his family. It was at this point in time where Derek had started to hate being famous already, hated having to keep this part of himself secret from the world.

Then there was Kate, who was a disaster all by herself. Looking back, he was young and stupid and he somehow failed to notice that the model was only using him to get ahead. She only smiled at him when there were paparazzi around or when she was taking a selfie with him to post on her Instagram. Really, most of their communication was through Twitter. So their relationship was more like him, her, and all of their followers. And Derek’s assistant did all of his tweets for him, so it got really weird, to be consulted on what type of emojis to use.

It ended as soon as his family died.

Derek couldn’t help but remember that he had been trying to get ahold of _her_ when their tour bus crashed, that the last thing he remembers about the accident is Cora saying “Oh my god, Derek, stop with the phone!” and his mom telling him to put it down and the police reports said it wasn’t his dad’s fault, but Derek can’t help but think that if his dad hadn’t twisted back at that exact moment to tell Derek to knock it off, maybe he could have swerved to avoid—

Derek shakes himself. He can’t think about that right now. Not when Stiles is sitting ten feet away, loudly going over on Skype what exact sound specification he needs with the crew for the VMAs.

Stiles is waving his hands around and he sounds honestly excited to be talking with these people, to discuss which beats the lights should turn on and in what order they should put in the wiring to get maximum sound. And Derek is just standing there, confused, staring and trying not to at the same time, but it’s captivating. Stiles moves like an intricate dance Derek’s only beginning to understand, and it’s beautiful and fascinating but he has no idea where he stands, what he’s doing.

Derek just can never tell what Stiles is thinking. Stiles’ unpredictability works with Derek’s music well, keeping it fresh and original and he’s out done himself with this song, he really has. But in terms of _knowing_ Stiles, he… he just doesn’t know anything.

Well, that’s not true. He’s stopped trying to revert back to calling Stiles “Stilinski” in his head, and knows that it’s not just because of the great sex. Even though it's great, angry, _mindblowing_ sex on a semi-regular basis. At least, it has been eight times in the three weeks they’ve worked together (not that he’s counting).

It’s great. It is. Derek is not complaining, he just… he just doesn’t get what it _means_. He doesn’t know if Stiles just needs it to concentrate or if he thinks that _Derek_ still needs it to concentrate or if it’s something he enjoys now or if it’s going anywhere.

There are times when they aren’t fighting about key changes or tempos or rhyming choices or trying to get each other off— times like the rare moments when Stiles is relaxed that Derek realizes he would actually like to know the rest of that joke, or ask about the entire room in Stiles’ house that looks like a comic book shrine, or how Stiles listened when Derek started talking about his inspiration for his previous album, that Derek could have talked more about what that meant, about his family, what that year was like, losing them.

Stiles can be annoying, sure, but he’s also the most interesting person Derek has ever met, and Derek... wants to know him.

“Stiles.”

“And I think orange, orange would look really great, maybe blue— oh, oh what about orange _and_ blue? Do they have those lights? But then—”

“Stiles!” Derek repeats, stepping closer and catching Stiles’ flailing wrists to hold him still. The crew is already looking completely overwhelmed at this point. He’s pretty sure the one originally taking notes is just staring at the screen in awe.

“Yeah?” Stiles licks his lips. “Did you want to take a break or something?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, before he loses his nerve. “A break.”

“Alright, guys,” Stiles says, nodding at the webcam and waving goodbye to the crew. “We can talk more when we are up for rehearsals in a few days. And I’ll e-mail you if I have any more ideas.”

The head technician still looks like he’s been hit by a bus and Stiles looks ready to keep talking so Derek leans over and clicks the end call button.

He can do this.

“I just wanted to know, um, we’ve been, you know, we’ve had… a lot of fun, and done a lot of things, and I just wanted to know, if maybe we should...” Derek squirms, nervous. “Take this to the next level?”

Stiles’ eyes lights up. “Dude. You are totally right. I’ve been dying to ride you. I can’t believe we haven’t fucked yet! Come on, it’s totally time for a break.”

Stiles takes Derek’s hand and leads him to the bed, pushing him down and kissing him hungrily. Derek kisses back, eager to taste that taste that was specifically _Stiles_ yet again. His mind is busy devouring the information that Stiles wanted to have sex with him and it wasn’t even part of an argument, feeling a happy flutter in his chest at this information. He can ask Stiles about their relationship later. After all, if sex isn’t an argument anymore, that Stiles _wants_ him, maybe he wants everything.

He’ll figure it out later. Because right now, Stiles is leaning back, unzipping his tight jeans, pulling them down, stepping out of his briefs. He walks bare-assed over to his bag and pulls out a tube of lube and starts slicking up his fingers as Derek watches him, unable to look away.

This is the most unclothed they’ve ever gotten— usually it’s just rucked up shirts and pants pulled down to thighs, grinding against each other, or mouths and hands on a cock, fingers stroking inside quickly, unseen, quick and dirty. But this is Stiles’ perky ass, round and supple, right in front of them. Stiles starts tracing the edge of his hole, and then gets in one, then two fingers easily, which makes Derek wonder if this is a habit of his. Stiles sighs happily, plucking a condom out of his bag and tossing it at Derek.

Derek unwraps it quickly and unzips his jeans, about to undress as well, but Stiles stops him, and just rolls the condom on Derek’s exposed cock.

“Stiles—” Derek gasps, and Stiles swallows his plea in a biting kiss, and then he’s straddling Derek, engulfing him in hot, tight heat.

Derek holds onto Stiles’ thighs for dear life, and Stiles throws his head back, riding Derek with a relentless rhythm, taking his pleasure and wrenching half-bitten off moans from Derek.

It’s too much and not enough.

Stiles’ hips rock up and down, and then his hands are on the back of Derek’s neck, stroking down, down, fingers sliding in a sensual tease. Every nerve of Derek’s is alight, and he can feel— oh fuck, he can feel Stiles’ heartbeat, pounding away in tune to his own, blood rushing through Stiles’ body with every beat, right under his skin.

Derek runs his hand under Stiles’ shirt, wanting to take it off, to see all that beautiful skin laid bare, but he isn’t sure if the never getting completely undressed thing is part of this unsaid rule about keeping this casual, and he doesn’t want to break the spell. Instead he just slides his hands up Stiles’ spine, caressing his back, rubbing his thumb across Stiles’ skin in time to his heartbeat.

Stiles kisses him between breaths, hard and biting, and then something changes— he slows down with a broken off sigh, moaning as the tempo slows—

 _Lentando,_ Derek remembers, lapsing into a sudden feverish memory as a teenager, abandoning his classical musical theory books in favor or jerking off.

He can’t help but think of music now, of the song that’s still coming together, between them, and he lets his hands fall to Stiles hips, holding him tight as he thrusts back into him in rhythm.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps.

He’s beautiful.

Derek wants him, so much.

Stiles’ forehead brushes against his, and there’s a moment where they’re just nose to nose, breathing in the same air. Everything Derek is feeling right now is Stiles— the heat of him, the softness of his skin, the rough brush of their clothed chests together, the gentle curve of a hip under his hands.

“Derek, you feel so good, oh, I want, I want—”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Derek says, more tenderly than he should be saying aloud, but he forgets himself. All he knows is the look on Stiles’ face when he comes, falling apart and coming back together in the same moment.

He presses soft kisses to Stiles’ jaw, about to gently lay him down, but Stiles just gasps, “Derek— I want to make you come, just—” panting, keeping the rhythm steady.

Derek falls forward with a groan, burying his face into Stiles’ neck.

“Yeah, Derek,” Stiles says, low and husky.

It’s the way he says Derek’s name that does it, pushing Derek over the edge, and he whimpers into Stiles’ sweat-slick skin, body shuddering as he comes inside Stiles.

There’s a long moment when Stiles is sitting in his lap still, panting slightly. Their noses touch, and Derek can’t help but press a bit closer, to kiss Stiles again— not out of lust or foreplay, but because he wants to.

They haven’t done this, kissed for the sake of kissing, and Derek can feel Stiles’ surprised intake of breath as he clenches down, like he’s trying to keep Derek inside him, wants more of him, all of him. Stiles looks up at him, eyes half lidded, on the edge.

“You’re beautiful,” Derek whispers, and means it.

The words slip out of his lips and rest softly on Stiles’ own. Stiles’ lips part a little in surprise, and he moves closer, for just a moment, before suddenly he is rolling away.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles has never been known for his caution. In second grade alone, he broke his arm twice. In fifth grade, he’d been hospitalized for an allergic reaction to peanut butter because he didn’t even think twice before stuffing an unknown brownie into his mouth. By high school, he had acquired enough stitches and scars in his life that he didn’t even really remember where they were all from. _General clumsiness,_ is what he told a sexual partner who asked. _Totally reckless,_ is what his father said with a half-worried, half-proud shake of his head. _Completely crazy,_ is what Scott would say right before doing the exact same thing.

 _Just life_ , is what Stiles actually thought. It’s what life was after all. Going for things and maybe failing but going anyway because why stop? Caution belongs in the wind.

In some ways, it is a useful lack. It was probably what made him brave enough to perform music in the first place. It made him shrug and hit the “Upload” button on Youtube and remain unconcerned when his first few videos didn’t get many hits outside of his father and the McCalls. It meant that he didn’t get all that nervous when the first producer called him and asked him to make a full E.P. He didn’t think about it, really. Sometimes there are pro-cons lists (like when he decided to drop out of college) but they are more to prove his point to his father than anything else.

When faced with options, Stiles doesn’t let caution stop him.

When given the opportunity to give Derek Hale a blowjob, he took it. When it kept happening, he didn’t pause to think about whether or not it was a good idea. When Derek Hale implied he wanted to go “all the way,” Stiles had grinned and dragged him to the bedroom and—

It was something he wanted as much as Derek, so he did it.

He didn’t think about it.

He should have thought about it.

Because the problem with not thinking about things is that sometimes there are consequences. Broken bones. Stitches. Getting stuck with “Stiles Stilinski” even though he could have used a stage name that was way cooler. Signing with the first label to offer him a contract and not reading the whole contract. Making barely any money for his first three years of work. Living off of Scott’s generosity.

And with this— with matters like this, sexual matters, it’s not like he hasn’t been burned before.

Matt was early in his career. Stiles was riding the high of actually being signed and playing a _concert_ (well, opening for one, but still!) and it hadn’t occurred to him that there were rules for this sort of thing. That grinning back at Matt in a bar and then making out with him on the dancefloor and winding up in a back alley on his knees would be newsworthy, especially when the paparazzi got wind of it somehow.

He was stupid. It took a few more outings— outings where the paparazzi conveniently knew where they were— for him to figure out that it was Matt who was tipping them off. He wasn’t heartbroken or anything, he knew he and Matt were casual. He spun it as “obviously I’m bisexual, duh, I’ve never hidden it” which was almost true and moved on with his life.

Still.

The one thing that had changed was that he promised to be a bit more careful. At least with relationships and sex.

And then Derek Hale had happened. And he’d jumped in and now—

Now, he is “washing up” in his own bathroom, realizing that, once again, he’s moved too fast. This isn’t about Derek Hale’s perfect cheekbones and picture perfect body and fucking _incredible_ ass anymore. This is about the way Derek’s eyes crinkle when he grins and his bunny teeth and the fact that he can always make Stiles laugh (even when he is being serious) and this is a disaster.

It’s the fact that Derek is in his bed, in his home, and that this whole writing-a-song-together business has turned into something else entirely.

He can’t linger in those moments. Derek calling him beautiful? It’s a fluke. Something that slipped out during sex, it doesn’t count.

So, Stiles doesn’t take a deep breath. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror and give himself a pep talk or consider his options. Instead, he wipes himself up and stretches his arms upward, enjoying the slight soreness and he’d just gotten to have sex with _Derek Hale_. He is happy and content and if there is anything to figure out (which he’s sure there is not), then he will do that later.

He avoids his eyes in the mirror.

Because, hell, he knows sometimes the only way to stop from falling is to keep tumbling forward.

 

* * *

 

The music video is filmed and done, and the song has been recorded, ready to release on all digital platforms once they perform.

It was hectic, the day of filming, and they barely had a moment to themselves, a quick five minutes of Stiles in Derek’s trailer where they had a moment to themselves. Stiles had come in and Derek wanted to thank him, to tell him how great this experience was, and there was this French fry festival next weekend and would Stiles want to come with him? As a date, and maybe they could move past this weird fuckbuddy situation, and then Derek could tell him how he felt. Finally.

Stiles instead pulled him close, grabbing his shirt, kissing Derek, soft and sweet, and then they were being called by the director.

After wrap Stiles had disappeared with Scott somewhere, and it was also Erica’s birthday and Derek was gonna go to her party, but he didn’t even have a chance to invite Stiles. He was just… gone.

And that was it.

In the four days leading up to the VMA’s Derek almost called Stiles three times. He doesn’t have a reason to call him, or text him, even. Every time they’ve hooked up before was because they were in the same place at the same time, working together and blowing off steam.

It would be weird to just send him a photo of a tomato that looked like a butt; Derek is in the grocery store taking a picture of it because Stiles had spent twenty minutes derailing song writing time to looking at weird shaped fruit.

He deletes the photo.

Derek doesn’t call Stiles.


	3. Chapter 3

Derek has done literally hundreds of live performances. He’s done school recitals and festivals and _sold-out_ stadiums with his family.

So it makes no sense as to why he is standing just offstage at the Radio City Music Hall, about to perform live at the VMAs, and feeling like he’s about to throw up.

_It’s just a song_ , he tells himself again. _It doesn’t matter._

And it will be fine. Over the course of a month, he and Stiles had managed to stop sniping at each other and they’d never said anything about the fact that sometimes they get angry and have something suspiciously like hate sex, so all they have to do is this last performance and they can go on their ways. Separately.

He hasn’t even seen Stiles before the show started. They have him in a different green room; MTV wants them to enter from opposite sides of the stage and meet in the middle.

Derek can see Stiles, standing in the wings opposite the stage, looking out into the crowd. He isn’t looking at Derek.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Kira Yukimura, the host of this year’s VMAs, says. “Everybody calm down. We’re back live again! But, wait a minute, don’t calm down because you will never believe what is about to happen next on this stage.”

The audience roars even though they obviously have no idea what’s about to happen. Peter and Allison had been near fanatical that this was going to be a surprise that would blow people’s minds.

“Now,” Kira continues once the crowd quiets. “I’m going to tell you a little backstage secret. A little behind the scenes.” More cheering. “Now, look, when we first got this call, we thought it must be a prank. You’re joking, we said. _These_ two want to play _together_ at the VMAs?”

Another pause for screaming and Derek tries to look across the stage to catch Stiles’ eyes but Stiles is apparently in the zone. His hands are clasped in front of him and he looks almost angry as he glares out onto the crowd, like they hurt him and he is going to make them suffer for it. Like he’s going to _win_ even if it’s not a competition.

“We actually thought it was a prank call— hung up and everything!” Kira says, pausing briefly for laughter before barrelling on. “But, they called right back. And they told us that not only did these two want to play _together,_ but that they were going to play a new song. That they _co-wrote.”_

Derek honestly doesn’t understand how a group of people can cheer so much. It’s two hours into the show. Aren’t they tired by now?

“So, now, here to put their summer feud aside, here to perform the world premiere of their brand new song, _SNATCHES OF SOUND,_ I present DEREK HALE and STILES STILINSKI!!”

The crowd goes wild and the lights go off and Derek knows that they have this set up so that Stiles will be alone on stage for just a few moments before Derek comes out and he’s grateful.

But he gets to watch as Stiles steps into the light, the spotlight catching him and making those amber eyes of his flash and his determination from before has been transformed into a wide open grin and a smirk that says he already _knows_ how great this song is going to be.

He plays to the crowd for a moment, waiting until they calm down and the silence grows.

He hits the first note right before Derek is expecting it, before the audience is expecting it and the jolt of it is like electricity running through the crowd, who goes silent.

The song starts soft — Derek’s influence — but it builds and then suddenly fades, before building again and—

Derek steps out. He’s not a rock star, doesn’t know how to work the crowd like Stiles does but at this point, Stiles has them pumped up enough that he doesn’t need to. A small smile in their direction is all it takes to rile them up. Luckily, Stiles had planned for this, had written a few extra measures into the song for the crowd to react to Derek ( _because we have to give them time to admire the biceps, Derek,_ Stiles had said with a grin, just a little barbed around the edges).

He looks over and Stiles nods at him, lets him know he’s ready.

When Derek finally steps up to the mic and opens his mouth to sing, he’s not nervous anymore. No, he’s almost _excited_ , standing up there, next to Stiles, letting his gaze drift over to watching Stiles’s forearms flex and stretch as he hits the various buttons and then Stiles’ voice, more alternative than Derek’s own, joins him.

They’d practiced this a thousand times, gone over and over each inflection and shift in dynamics and Derek doesn’t need to listen to his earbud to know it’s going perfectly. He gets lost in it a little bit, in the music and the pulse of the drums and the heat of the crowd. He gets lost in a way that he rarely does anymore

And then he looks over to see Stiles doing a truly _terrible_ impression of Derek’s signature dance move from when he was young (a roll of the hips that looks frankly ridiculous when done by a grown man) and this wasn’t in any of the rehearsals but Derek rolls his eyes and does it back, just for a moment, and the erupting crowd draws Stiles’ attention once more but Derek—

Derek keeps his eyes on Stiles.

Stiles should look gross. He’s sweating and he has enough stage makeup on that his smaller moles are covered up and whoever did his hair did not take into account the amount of movement that Stiles put into a live performance, because it now half of it is still in place but the other half is in complete disarray. He’s famous in the music world for his inability to dance but he’s doing it anyway.

He should not look so hot.

But he does. Derek watches the flush of Stiles’ cheeks and the redness creeping up the back of his neck and the way his hands flex and his throat works around the notes. He sees the way Stiles grins, delighted at the crowd, eyes flicking around the crowd as if trying to make eye contact with all of them.

Derek should be doing that, he realizes abruptly. That is Music Performance 101, to make sure everyone in the audiences feels like you looked _right at them_ if only for a second. He should be working the crowd and not just staring at Stiles, who doesn’t like him like that, who hasn’t said anything about continuing to see him, who is —

Who is walking towards him. They had planned this, to end the song standing right next to each other, to put the rumors of a feud to rest with an open display of friendship, and Derek has to look down because suddenly he’s _nervous_?

It makes no sense. Stiles makes no sense.

They hit the last note and the sound cuts off so it is just their voices into the stillness.

And Stiles throws his arm over Derek’s shoulders, which they hadn’t rehearsed, and Derek looks over at him again as they end together and the crowd goes wild and he thinks:

_Oh, shit._

 

* * *

 

Stiles has no idea how Derek is a somewhat-famous rock star.

Because they both nail the last note of their song, the harmony echoing perfectly into the theater and the audience goes _wild_ and Stiles’ face hurts from smiling so much and he knows that no one wants them to get off the stage right away. Sure, the TV broadcast is probably cutting to commercials but all the people _here_ want to see them wave and bow and interact a little bit.

But, Derek freaking Hale is scowling as if he’s had the worst time of his life and after approximately _ten seconds_ , ducks out from under Stiles’ arm and heads off stage.

And if Stiles stays, it will just make Derek’s departure more obvious and Allison had told him that they were trying to move past the feud. And unlike Derek, Stiles has to _work_ for his career so he sucks it up, waves to the crowd one last time, and jogs off the stage after his asshole duet partner.

Derek looks slightly less angry now that they aren’t on stage and maybe those rumors that Stiles has heard (okay, read about on Tumblr) are true. Maybe Derek really does just hate performing live. That seems strange because Stiles had been watching and Derek looked _brilliant_ tonight and sounded even better.

Maybe he only gets nervous after it’s over.

“That was pretty great, right?” Stiles tries as members of the crew come to collect their mics and earbuds. Then he clears his throat as he realizes that had sounded entirely too chipper. Young, even, like this was his first show and he doesn’t know how to handle it. “I mean, uh—”

Dammit, he wishes Scott had been able to be backstage for this, but the MTV people stuck him up in one of those VIP booths. Scott still gets just as excited for every single one of Stiles’ shows, and there’s still a version of his “YES-STILES-YES” dance that he does, a variation on the first one he did back in the apartment they lived together when they both moved out to LA from Beacon Hills.  Scott had made it big first, and then when Stiles started landing music gigs it was like they were unstoppable— and even as Scott’s fame has skyrocketed, he still finds time to cheer and whoop for Stiles like he used to when they were both eighteen and unknown.

When Scott is backstage, Stiles feels like he is allowed to be ridiculous and whoop and give intense re-plays for his favorite parts that happened only twenty minutes prior. But Scott’s here tonight with a slew of producers he’s trying to impress for his new project, a foray into directing, so he’s stuck with the bigwigs in some fancy booth.

Stiles didn’t anticipate being alone; he figured he could try to celebrate with Derek. Maybe even bang in one of the dressing rooms.

But with Derek carefully not meeting his eyes and sort of scowling around, ripping the mic out of his pants when the tech guys take too long, he just feels like an idiot.

And he _isn’t_ an idiot and just because Derek Hale has a voice like an angel and currently holds the VeVo record and has stubble that actually looks _good_ instead of Stiles’ miserable excuse for facial hair, that doesn’t mean that Derek is _better_ than him.

Stiles feels himself starting to get angry and then with that anger comes horniness (because, fuck it, he’s practically been conditioned at this point that anger plus Derek equals sex) but of course they are in public. And, sure, Derek said he wasn’t straight, and they’ve spent all this time doing this hate-fucking, but Stiles has scoured the internet and Derek has never gone out of his way to clarify that with the media.

And Stiles might think Derek is a horrible person 90% of the time, but he’s not about to out him to the public. He knows what a pain that is, even if you do manage to spin it to look like you didn’t care and that was your plan all along. He’s out and he wouldn’t trade it for the world, but Derek…

Derek is just different. And frustrating.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Derek growls, stalking towards the press room.

Right. Also, abrupt and rude. Can’t forget those two.

Screw this. Stiles doesn’t care how much of a grump Derek is. They nailed that song and Stiles knows it and he’s going to have _fun_ during this press conference. And if Derek wants to spend the rest of his night pouting, then that’s his problem.

Stiles, though? Stiles is going to have fun with it.

 

* * *

 

Alright, it’s done. He’s done. He should stop.

That’s what Derek tells himself as he opens Chrome. He’s not going to look. He’s going to check his e-mail like a regular person and then maybe pull up Netflix and watch a few episodes of the new season of that Sense8 show everyone is talking about and he is—

Somehow he’s already opened Tumblr.

And, of course, all the edits and responses from last night are already up. And, of course, it seems that all of them had spent the entire night putting together gifsets and manips and videos of the whole performance.

He regrets ever getting an account. He only got the idea because of that one time he and Stiles were attempting to 69. It was awkward and uncomfortable and —

_“Tumblr made this look so much easier,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his neck._

_“Tumblr?” Derek grunts, trying to work some feeling back in his leg._

_“You know, the website,” Stiles replies. “Everyone has a blog and posts stuff and, well, people ship us. Someone made a manip of us.”_

_Derek blinks. Now that Stiles says it, it sounds vaguely familiar. Another social media something that Peter had tried to demand he get on. And apparently Tumblr is making… manips? Of him and Stiles? What other things_ —

_“C’mon,” Stiles says, leaning back against the pillows and pushing his shirt aside so he can grip his cock and start stroking lazily. “You’re the one who wants to wear a_ thumbhole sweater _in our video. You do me first.”_

_Derek growls and pulls Stiles on top of him, forgetting about Tumblr._

At least, he had forgotten about it until the next day. Then suddenly he was signing up and typing “Stiles Stilinski” into the search bar and he didn’t even really know what the Plus button did but suddenly when he clicked the Home screen there is an _endless_ amount of pictures of Stiles on his screen. Stiles alone, Stiles and him, porn stars who are definitely _not_ him or Stiles but are tagged as them anyway.

It was absolutely ridiculous and Derek vowed never to look again, but spends the next five hours staring at gifs and eventually clicked a link that sends him to an _actual_ porn video, which resulted in him jerking off, closing his eyes, picturing the real thing, and coming more quickly than he should be, all things considered.

And now he’s back on it.

The rest of the VMAs had been a blur. They were supposed to do a brief press conference after the performance, to hype up their single but Derek was frozen, too terrified of the extent of his feelings, that he might slip and tell everyone, that he might tell _Stiles,_ Stiles, who is interested in sex with Derek, but not Derek.

Derek spent the rest of the evening trying to forget that he was in love with Stiles, and then trying to also be around Stiles as much as possible. Because after the night was over, it wasn’t likely that they’d see each other again. It felt final, and Derek wanted to drink up as much of Stiles’ presence as possible. He milled around the cocktail hour after the VMAs with Stiles, drank shots with him, even found himself going along with Stiles to Britney Spears’ afterparty, where Derek watched Stiles do shot after shot, surrounding by well-wishers and the sparkle and buzz of Hollywood’s it crowd.

Stiles had started to waver, and Derek found himself holding him up in an elaborate bathroom (with a chandelier), rubbing Stiles’ back as he threw up for an hour.

In the end, Scott had come to pick Stiles up and Derek wasn’t able to do anything more than awkwardly wave goodbye.

At least his apartment is empty and he can scroll through Tumblr like the pathetic loser he is.

Except it is not very enjoyable.

Because in the older gifs of them together, when that interview came out and this whole mess started, he could look at these gifs and edits and manips and admire them for their artistry.

Now he just sees slow-motion shots of himself looking directly at Stiles and singing on stage and reads comments like “HOLY FUCKING SHIT, HALE IS SO IN LOVE. HE DID NOT TAKE HIS EYES OFF STILES THE WHOLE TIME OMFGGGGGG:QKWJK” and he thinks: _Fuck, they know_.

He’d made it so _obvious_. He stood up there, staring and grinning like an idiot and he’d even done the stupid dance that he’d publicly vowed never to do again just because Stiles did it and then batted his eyelashes at him.

He is so in love and everyone knows it. Hell, there is a _masterlist_ of every moment. And they’re all true. Derek _was_ checking Stiles out during the interview and his hands had wrapped around Stiles’ hips when he fell and he did spend his _entire VMA performance_ staring at Stiles like a lovestruck puppy.

Of course, there’s no evidence that _Stiles_ is in love. Sure, some people focus on his delighted laugh after Derek did the dance on stage or the way he threw his arm around Derek’s shoulder and his thumb lingered on Derek’s collarbone or the set of photos from the press room that comes out where he is making ridiculous faces in the background of _all_ of Derek’s photos. But those aren’t _real_. That’s just Stiles. Having fun and enjoying life and being _free_ in a way that Derek can barely remember.

And, to top it all off, he knows Stiles is on Tumblr. That he’s going to see all the photos. That he’s going to _know_.

For once, he doesn’t mind when his phone rings and it’s Peter. He needs the distraction.

“I need you in the office,” Peter tells him. “Right now.”

His tone is a bit brisk for the morning after such a good night. Their song was an instant hit, and it’s already number one in all digital downloads.

“Why?” Derek grumbles, even though he’s already standing. “I thought the song went fine.”

“The _song_ went fine,” Peter says. “But now we need to capitalize on this amazing momentum you’ve built. We’re moving to Phase Two.”

“Phase Two?” This sounds stupid. Derek already hates it.

“Hurry up,” Peter orders. “Stilinski is supposed to be here in an hour.”

Derek goes through three different outfits before finally deciding on jeans and a tight black t-shirt. He looks in the mirror and says, “Stiles, I’m in love with you, and I want to have a relationship. Not just sex.”

It sounds dumb when he says it, and he sighs. He can see Stiles laughing at him.

Derek bites his lip. Maybe he should just ask Stiles out, and then work up to the in-love part. There was that thing that he saw in the news that he thought Stiles would like— what was it called again?

He finally finds the details and musters up the courage to practice again. “Stiles, would you like to go to this french fry festival with me? It’s a day of tastings of all these different chefs doing varieties of fries. There’s fifty versions of curly fries. And there’s music, and art and stuff too.”

His reflection looks back at him, and all Derek knows is that he looks desperate. _He_ wouldn’t want to go to a french fry festival with him— why would Stiles? Stiles, who could probably have a french fry festival thrown in his honor.

Derek stares at his reflection one more time and grimaces. Well, here goes nothing.

 

* * *

 

The office is empty, the glass walls of Peter’s conference room polished to a fine sheen. Peter whirls around in his chair and gives Derek a smile.

Anyone else might think that it’s a fond familial one, one a proud uncle might give his nephew, but Derek knows where this is going.

He takes a seat, gingerly folding his hands together. “So.”

Peter puts an image on the screen behind him. It’s a shot from last night, the same one Derek was agonizing over, the one where he’s giving Stiles the most longing look.

Peter leans back in his chair. “You and Stiles,” he says, rubbing his hand together in glee. “There’s even a hashtag. Sterek! Over seventeen _thousand_ people tweeted about you two last night. And that’s just on Twitter. I’m still waiting on reports from other social media outlets, but we are _killing it._ ”

“Okay?”  Derek shifts in his seat.

“We can’t let this opportunity pass us by. I mean, look at this!” Peter clicks his remote, and the image changes to pie charts and graphs and Derek doesn’t even know what that last one is. So he’s doing well in… social media stuff. Sales of his album have gone up, as well as ticket sales to concerts that are _next year._

Well, it is Peter’s job to worry about that stuff. Whatever.

“So, Stiles is on his way?” he asks, trying not to seem too eager.

“Yes! His people called my people, they’re almost here. Traffic, you know.” Peter leans in closer. “So. Stiles, you like Stiles, right?”

“I—”

“Good. You two should be seen together. Take the boy out on a proper date, you know.”

Derek blinks. What? He has _Peter’s_ blessing? They’ve talked about Derek coming out before, and Derek’s wanted to. But every time he’s approached Peter and the studio about the subject, it always came down to being marketable to his audience, and well, the music industry isn’t particularly a kind atmosphere. Plus, coming from an award-winning wholesome family music group and trying to make it big on his own, he needs to still be able to appeal to that demographic. At least that’s what Peter says.

But coming out, being able to be who he is and do his music— a thrill of excitement runs down his spine.

“Yeah, I could— yes.” Derek pulls out the little notebook he always keeps in his pocket. “Should I— I’d like to make a statement, first? Maybe we should talk to some organizations, I was thinking BiNetUSA—”

Peter makes a face. “Derek, you’re _not_ coming out. We’ve talked about this. What I want you to do is pal around with Stilinski, get your picture taken together, make it look like you _could_ be dating. We’ll deny everything, of course, and you will say that you’re just good friends, but the public will eat it up with a spoon.”

Derek recoils in horror. “I can’t do that.”

“Derek—”

“No,” Derek says, standing up. As much as he wants to see Stiles again, wants to spend time with him, he doesn’t want it to be a lie. He wants to ask him out for real, wants to date him for real. He can’t do this.

He leaves the studio without looking back.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is too hungover for this.

He vaguely remembers making the decision to make silly faces behind Derek (to really contrast with the glares of death Derek was giving all the cameras) and then sort of remembers making one final attempt to get Derek to lighten up at least a little and being at Britney’s party and more shots—

Well, then he doesn’t remember much after that until waking up on Scott’s couch to the sound of his stupid phone (and honestly, shouldn’t that thing have been dead? Stiles doesn’t remember charging it). He was probably still a little tipsy when he made the decision to actually answer the phone and he deeply regretted that decision because that meant Allison had found him and demanded that he get his ass to a meeting.

If it were a meeting with anyone except Derek, Stiles probably would have just pulled his “rock star” card and ignored it completely but… well it’s _Derek._ Stiles always wants to see Derek.

Plus, this way he can apologize for being a drunken loon last night. Maybe they’ll even talk about what put Derek in such a bad mood.

Maybe Derek will still _be_ in a bad mood and they’ll have to have sex just to get rid of it.

Stiles is pretty positive that sex would cure his hangover. Especially sex with Derek.

Either way, he drags himself out of bed and he’s not feeling confident enough to drive, but he has a limo service for that so all-in-all, he’s only twenty minutes late to this meeting. And, luckily, when he enters the conference room, no one else is even there.

There is coffee waiting in the corner though, so he serves himself a mug of that and uses up the rest of their sugar packets. Then he settles in to wait.

It’s another five minutes before the door swings open.

It’s not Derek, though. It’s Peter.

“Stiles,” Peter says as they shake hands.

Stiles manages to nod in response. To be honest, Peter has always freaked him out a little bit. And right now he seems awful grim. “I’m sorry to have called you in here.”

“No, that’s fine,” Stiles says, taking a seat. “It was no problem.”

He cranes his head, looking for Derek.

“No, I mean, it is a problem,” Peter says, frown deepening. “Because, unfortunately, there is no reason for you to be here.”

Stiles blinks at him.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “Is this some prank meeting? Is Derek getting back at me for photobombing his pictures last night? Because, let me tell you, this is so much worse than what I did.”

Peter sighs. “I thought that with the success of your latest project, you and Derek should maintain a close friendship. Perhaps be seen out together. For the good of your image. And his. So, I called you here to discuss whether or not you would be… amenable to that idea.”

Stiles is already started to nod. Yes. Yes, he _would_ be amenable to that idea. And not because it would be “good for his image” but because he… spending time with Derek is the literal _opposite_ of a chore. Derek is funny and kind and Stiles hasn’t been able to pin down the exact shade of green his eyes are yet so he still has work to do on that front and—

And, maybe, sometimes, just a little, Stiles thinks that Derek might _like_ him. For real.

So Stiles starts to nod and then Peter continues.

“Unfortunately, Derek has made it clear that he very much objects to such an arrangement.”

Stiles’ heart stops.

“He— what?” He hates how low and breathless his voice sounds to his own ears.

“He is unwilling to enter into this arrangement,” Peter sounds unhappy but firm. “I could not convince him to see the benefits so…” He trails off. “So, I’m very sorry that I brought you in here. I should have made sure that Derek was on board before arranging this meeting.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, letting the formal finality of the words wash over him. “I— he doesn’t want to see me at _all_?”

He had thought they were getting somewhere. Hell, he’d… he’d had the guy’s dick _in him_ the other day and they had such a great time on stage and—

“That’s what he implied,” Peter says. “Now, I can compensate you for making this trip but—”

“Forget it,” Stiles snaps. He’s too hungover for this. He has a headache and he thought he meant something to Derek and _fuck this_. “I don’t need your fucking handouts.”

Peter nods as if that’s what he was expecting. Stiles shoots to his feet and crams his sunglasses back over his eyes and glares at Peter.

“You should really see if you can get Derek into acting,” Stiles snarls, letting the hurt bubble over. “He certainly has the talent for it.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a big thank you do M for betaing this chapter!

The worst part about all this is that Stiles isn’t exactly allowed to mope for very long. His collaboration with Derek is ridiculously successful, which means his albums sales get another push. Then their music video comes out (he can’t make himself watch it, but he’s told it does well) and all that means that people want to talk to him again. Talk shows and radio stations and podcasts and magazines and… everyone, really. Everyone wants to talk to him about what it was like working with Derek Hale.

The only good part about all of it is that at least Derek hightails it out of LA to go back to New York City. So at least Stiles doesn’t have to actually _see_ him.

He just has to answer a lot of questions about him. And at the insistence of his publicist, he has tried to keep it positive. Friendly. Polite, at the very least.

He’s starting to sound rehearsed and he knows it. There are only so many times he can say, “Working with Derek was quite an experience! We ended up working really well together.” Or “Yeah, the process was difficult but totally worth it. We both really love music so that helped us.” Or, the worst: “Will we work together in the future? I’m not sure. We’ll have to see.”

People are starting to see the strain on his face and in his voice and he tries not to go on Tumblr anymore because all the shippers are either saying that they broke up or are being forced to hide it.

And Stiles almost _wishes_ that one of those were true. Obviously, the second one would be fine with him because that’s essentially what they had been doing for the month leading up to the VMAs, but even the first would be better than what he is now.

If they were broken up, that would mean that they were at least _dating_ at some point. That Derek at least liked him enough to use him for something other than sex. That there is something Stiles can properly mourn.

Right now, it’s all… blurry. He’s mad about it. At Derek, sure, for being such a huge jerk and not even wanting to be _seen_ with him. But also with himself. Because he knew, he fucking _knew_ that getting involved with Derek was a bad idea and he told himself a thousand times that none of it meant anything but still…

Somehow he fell for it anyway.

Fucking stupid.

Most of all though, he’s mad at these people who keep asking him the _same fucking questions_.

In the end, that’s what does him in.

“Do you think you and Derek Hale will work together again?” the reporter asks him, a coy smile on her face. “Maybe even a full album?” She is grinning and leaning closer and _give me the scoop_ , her eyes tell him, _c’mon, let me be the one to break the story._

“No,” he tells her, voice low and blunt. “No, we won’t.”

She blinks and her smile drops into a frown. Her eyes are still sparkling though. This isn’t the story she wanted but it’s still a _story_.

“Never?” she says. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Stiles says, shifting. “We— Derek Hale is a talented musician but we won’t be producing anymore music together.”

“But in earlier interviews you said—”

“We won’t be,” Stiles repeats coldly. “Sorry to disappoint.”

The words come out hard and final and he’s lost track of where he is a little bit, if it is acceptable to start walking again, but in the end it doesn’t matter, his feet are carrying him away before she can say anything. It’s only muscle memory that has the corners of his mouth lifting into a brief, horribly fake smile as he walks away.

It will make news. He knows it will.

He can’t bring himself to care.

 

* * *

 

Derek’s loft is cold and empty. He’s always liked the space before, liked the big open windows and the spiral staircase. It’s filled with modern, stiff furniture, plenty of comforts. Nothing at all like the cozy house he grew up in, filled with warm laughter and soft colors and squashy furniture. He remembers the walls lined with their albums, awards, appearances, the way his parents had been so proud of all of them.

He wonders if his parents would be proud of him now.

Laura and Cora didn’t want to sing anymore, after the accident. They dealt with grief in their own way, and Derek doesn’t begrudge them that.

Singing helps him feel close to his parents; after all, they were the ones who taught him, encouraged him.

Peter’s been helpful, of course, pushing him for more and more.

After the VMAs Derek should have been riding the press train, doing appearances and giving statements, like Stiles is doing, but he didn’t have the heart to do it. It’s just more lies.

He retires to his apartment, orders groceries online and doesn’t leave, not even to have lunch with his sisters.

Stiles is still on the red carpet, he appears at award shows, on the set of Scott McCall’s new movie. He looks gorgeous and unattainable, utterly unfazed, lazily giving platitudes about how great it was to work with Derek, how talented Derek is. It doesn’t matter to him, that Derek left, then. Stiles just...keeps on going.

Derek shouldn’t watch the news, shouldn’t flip channels looking for Stiles, but he does. He misses his voice, the way he laughs, the way Stiles’ body fit against his.

Derek wishes he lived in a world where it didn’t matter, that he could just ask Stiles out. It wouldn’t have to be so complicated.

Maybe he should have just given in and done what Peter asked; then he could still spend time with him, at least.

But it didn’t feel right, lying to everyone like that. Lying to Stiles.

Derek shuffles to the couch, ignoring the pile of debris that has built up— empty potato chip bags, dirty plates, takeout containers. He’s still in his robe, wearing coffee-stained pajamas from three days ago. It doesn’t matter. No one is going to see him.

TMZ is playing when he turns on the TV. He knows it’s gaudy and horrible but he watches it anyways as they skip through their weekly highlights reel.

“This just in!” a reporter says, gasping at the screen. “Stiles Stilinski has just announced that he and Derek Hale will no longer be working together!”

Derek blinks. That’s… what?

“As you know, Stiles has been remarkably tight-lipped about any future projects with Derek Hale, despite the success of their latest song. He has been even _more_ reluctant to talk about his personal relationship with Derek Hale. That is, until today. Check it out.”

The camera switches to Stiles, hair slicked back, tight pants, leather jacket, cool as fuck. He’s walking on the red carpet at some charity event, and then a reporter sidles up to him, asks him if he and Derek will work together.

Stiles looks right at the camera, his mouth a straight line. He almost looks angry, but there’s something about his expression Derek doesn’t understand. “No,” he says. “No, we won’t.”

Derek freezes, watches the whole interview, then replays it and watches it again.

Stiles must hate him. They’ve never said anything about future projects, and Derek would be interested but Stiles never asked, so this must be just Stiles… never wanting to work with him again.

Derek feels like he’s just been punched in the gut.

 

* * *

 

Cora’s in New York for a few days; art shows and the like. She’s a huge patron, albeit anonymously, using their family’s wealth to support marginalized artists and filmmakers. Cora had showed up at Derek’s door and then promptly started dragging him out to see the world.

He showers and gets dressed for the first time in a week, wearing some John Varvato outfit that got sent over a few days ago. He doesn’t shop that often, doesn’t know about the newest trends, but he feels like he looks good. He’s a little unsure about this outfit, the sweater is a little see-through, but was assured that he’ll be setting the trend.

The gala is fairly low key, with a few Hollywood types but mostly New York socialites eager to open their wallets to support charities. Derek poses for a few photos, but lets Cora take the spotlight. She hasn’t been seen in awhile, and the reporters are thirsty for elusive photos.

Derek gets the usual, who he’s wearing, is he working on more songs, etc.

“Stiles Stilinski!”

Someone calling for Stiles?

Derek turns around and bites his lip. Of course Stiles isn’t here. Someone was just shouting his name. Oh, and shouting Stiles’ name to Derek. Like it’s a question.

The reporter steps forward, a little surprised that Derek stopped and turned around, but determined nonetheless. “Stiles Stilinski, what do you, uh—”

Probably something about what he thinks about Stiles’ declaration about never working together again.

Derek looks right in the camera and speaks into the mic. “I think Stiles Stilinski is the most talented musician of our generation. He’s incredible and I wish I… I wish I had his courage. He’s been inspiring to me, and it was a wonderful experience getting the opportunity to work with him. We have different styles, both in writing and performing, but I learned a lot from Stiles. I’m sorry to hear he no longer wants to work with me, but I don’t blame him. We didn’t leave things on the right note, and I want to say… well, I wish him nothing but the best. He deserves it.” He takes a deep breath, and adds, “I wish I could deserve him.”

The reporter doesn’t move, microphone frozen in place. “Oh. Wow, thank you, Derek.”

Derek realizes that everyone is staring. Cora is looking at him, stunned.

He shrinks back. “Yeah. I, ah. Yes. Okay, bye.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles isn’t surprised when Scott calls him at eleven am on Sunday morning. He and Scott always make a point to talk every day when they aren’t living next door to each other. And, lately, he suspects Scott has been calling him earlier to make sure that Stiles is doing something with his day rather than mope around in his pajamas. Which, for the record, he only did for like… four days. Right at the very beginning. Now, Allison convinced him that he should ride the wave of popularity to produce another batch of songs. Which means he is usually up and recording by 8am before getting home and passing out closer to midnight.

Still, today is _Saturday_. He should get to relax. He grabs his phone and answers anyway.

“Hey, Scott,” he says, dragging his cellphone to his face and rolling over. Okay, so, yes, he is still in bed. It’s being awake that counts though. “I’m up. Went on a twelve mile bike ride this morning, actually.”

It doesn’t count as a lie if Scott _knows_ it’s a lie.

“Did you see it?” Scott’s voice is a little too loud against his ear but that’s to be expected. Stiles hums something to let Scott know he is listening. “ _Stiles_ , did you see it?”

“See what?” Stiles says. He’s been trying to avoid the Internet. Everyone is making his statement out to be a Big Deal, Perez Hilton is calling it the split of the year, Tumblr is beside itself.

“Derek,” Scott says. “He made a statement. Stiles, you—”

“C’mon, Scott,” Stiles groans. “I’m trying to _not_ think about Derek Hale.”

“You should watch it,” Scott presses. “I sent you the link.”

“No,” Stiles says, trying to be firm. “No, I need to stop thinking about Derek and start—”

“Please,” Scott says. “I think you should at least watch it.”

Stiles doesn’t know how, but he is doing _the face_ over the phone. The face that Scott does with the big eyes and the concerned eyebrows drawn together and the slight pout. The one that _always_ gets Stiles to go along with him. Somehow he is doing it over the phone.

“Ugh, fine,” Stiles says, reaching for his laptop. Benefits of being single— he can just sleep with his laptop on the other side of his bed. “I’m opening my laptop now.”

“Okay.”

Scott doesn’t hang up.

“Are you going to listen to me watch it?” Stiles asks, sitting up and wedging his phone between his ear and his shoulder.

“Uh, well I guess I can hang up,” Scott says. But he sounds like he doesn’t want to.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Stiles says. This is probably some bland statement that Peter made Derek give. He can handle this. And if he can’t, well, Scott has always made him feel better. “I’m opening it now.”

It’s a YouTube link. Derek is at a charity art gala thing with his sister, Cora. He looks… devastatingly handsome is the only way to describe it. That fucking sheer sweater is utterly gorgeous on him. Stiles nearly closes it right then. But the reporter says his name and Derek stops walking and turns to face the camera.

“ _I think Stiles Stilinski is the most talented musician of our generation. He’s incredible and I wish—_ ”

It’s… it’s a whole freaking _speech_. About _Stiles._ About how he is talented and brave and Derek is sorry for leaving things the way they are and—

“This doesn’t make sense,” Stiles says, breathless. “He— He didn’t even want to _see_ me after the VMAs, Scott.”

“Are you sure?” Scott says. “He sounds sorry. Like _really_ sorry.”

“Of course I’m sure!” Stiles says. “Peter said that they just wanted us to be seen together and Derek refused. He didn’t… I don’t get this. Hold on. Hold on, I’m listening again.”

It doesn’t make any more sense the second time around. In fact, it might make _less_ sense because this time his brain doesn’t melt halfway through and so he actually _hears_ when Derek says he regrets how they ended.

“He ended it!” he tells Scott, his voice louder the second time around. “Why would he _regret_ it when he’s the one who— this makes no sense.”

“Maybe he made a mistake!” Scott says. “You should—”

“I should what?” Stiles says. He doesn’t remember standing up but he’s standing now. Standing and pacing around his room. “Call him? Text him? Pretend that he didn’t completely ignore me— _Publicity.”_

“What?”

“This must be a publicity stunt,” Stiles says. “He paints me as the asshole who doesn’t want to work together. He gets to be the nice guy who everyone feels bad for! That’s what this is!”

“No way,” Scott says. “I don’t think that’s it at all.”

“It is!” Stiles is certain. “He is trying to spin this so he is the good guy! Have you checked the boards? Check the comments, I bet people are already _lining up_ to—”

“Stiles!” Scott says. “I don’t think he’s doing that. Think about it. When has Derek ever done _anything_ for publicity reasons?”

Stiles pauses. That’s… well, it’s true. Derek avoids almost all talk shows. And the ones that he does do, he has… he has this look about him. Stiles knows. He’s watched almost all of them. When Derek is forced to talk to people he doesn’t want to, his mouth goes a bit flat and his eyes don’t crinkle, even when he smiles.

And none of his answers are ever that long. The most anyone ever gets out of him is about three sentences. Maybe four if they’re short.

“See,” Scott says, clearly taking his silence as agreement. “He sounds sincere, Stiles. And sorry. And I think… I think you should talk to him.”

Stiles chokes on nothing. “ _Talk to him_! I can’t just… talk to him. It’s been a month! More!”

“So?” Scott says. “You should at least text him or something. Ask him what he meant!”

“If he wanted to talk to me, he could have texted. Or called. Or fucking tweeted— technically he has that, you know.”

“I know,” Scott says. “But he… it seemed like he was trying, Stiles. With that interview.”

Stiles hates it when Scott is right. But… he is. Or at least, Stiles wants him to be.

But also, Stiles can’t do this again. He let himself care too much with Derek. He moved too fast and if Derek is just playing him or using the media, he doesn’t… Maybe it’s better to just back out now. To keep getting over him and move on with his life and not _worry_ about this.

He has other things to worry about. His music. The tour. Sure, it’s not a big tour— small venues in a few major cities, but it is going to be busy. A concert almost every night. Travelling every day. He—

This will be good. He can keep himself busy.

“I can’t do this right now, Scott,” he says. “There’s too many other things going on.”

“Stiles.”

“I’m okay, Scott,” Stiles says, taking a breath. He has to pack. “Thanks for telling me about it. It was… it was nice. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Scott doesn’t sound happy to be hanging up but he says goodbye anyway.

Stiles turns and stares at the computer. The video is still open. Paused on Derek’s face. He looks… God, he looks beautiful.

Stiles slams the laptop shut.

 

* * *

 

Derek is vaguely aware that things happen in New York, and they continue to happen. He lives here, after all. Art shows and gallery openings and music festivals and fashion and everything. Life goes on, passing him by, and he stays in his apartment, curtains drawn, lights off. He doesn’t have anything going on; he’s done with his tour, all the music videos for his last album and done and done, and if anything, he could be working on another album. A song, even.

Derek doesn’t write. He doesn’t play. He catches up on his television shows, gets on first-name basis with the Amazon guy who delivers his groceries, and turns off the Internet.

He ignores Peter’s emails and texts and calls about planning a new tour, press conferences, anything. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Even considers just turning off his phone and leaving it off, but he does still want to talk to his sisters.

Laura’s in Ireland with her husband, and she listens to him talk for hours about Stiles and everything. “Do you want my advice, or did you just want to talk?”

“Talk,” Derek says. He has a feeling Laura will probably say he should try to talk to Stiles, go for it, you can do it, love conquers all and all that. She’s a romantic. But not everybody finds their soulmate at age twenty-three, gets married and runs off to raise sheep in the idyllic countryside. “Thank you.”

“Of course, baby bro. Do you want distraction stuff? Because three lambs were born yesterday and they’re ridiculously cute.”

Derek turns on the Internet for the first time in weeks so he can open his email. The lambs are cute. They’re wearing sweaters.

The first thing Derek wants to do is show Stiles.

And then he realizes he can’t.

“You gonna be okay, Derek? You know if you want to have a real vacation you’re always welcome out on the farm here with me and Jonah. It’s nice, here. Peaceful.”

“Thanks, Laura. I don’t want to bother you guys, though.”

“Nonsense!” Laura makes a few cheerful noises. “Oh, did you know Cora’s going to be in town? You should meet up!”

Derek did not know Cora was going to be back in New York— he thought she was headed to France, next. She’s got a busy schedule. But sure enough, an hour later she calls him and tells him she’ll be there tomorrow.

He has a suspicion that his sisters just don’t want him to be alone, and sure enough when Cora shows up and makes a face at his apartment, he can appreciate it.

“This is gross, Derek,” she says.

“I know, I know.”

She throws open the curtains, and sunlight streams in, and in a matter of hours the place is clean, laundry is put away, and Cora’s got a whole week of social events planned. There’s brunch with her and her friends, and Cora takes him shopping for new clothes, not just the pre-packaged outfits that John Varvatos sends him.

It’s nice, having the apartment filled with her voice and laughter again. Cora doesn’t seem to mind that Derek does one-word answers, and is just content to be there. _I got you that hummus you like,_ and _do you want to try making bread today?_ and _that book you liked had a sequel and it’s out now, we should meet the author, they’re having a reading._

Derek comes back from the farmer’s market one day, and he’s pretty proud of himself for going on his own, without any suggestion from Cora. He puts his little jars of honey away, listening to the music Cora has on. It’s nice. New, too; he’s never heard it before, a smooth guitar strumming away in the guest room. He walks by and spots her at her sketchbook, lost in her drawing, and he smiles a bit, watching her bob and hum to the music.

It’s a good song. It’s been awhile since he’s really been pulled into music, hasn’t heard anything new in ages.

The lyrics start, and Derek freezes.

He knows this voice, but he’s never heard it like this.

_This song isn’t about you, but it is, and I can’t stop thinking about you…_

It’s a ballad. Stiles doesn’t do ballads. He’s made fun of Derek’s ballads before, but there’s no question that’s what this is.

The song stops.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, I thought you wouldn’t be home for awhile,” Cora says, looking at Derek over her sketchbook.

“It’s okay.” Derek doesn’t really know what to say.

“It’s a really good song,” she says.

“He’s very talented.”

Cora nods. “I— I know you didn’t want to talk about him and what happened, and you just want to forget—”

Derek sits down on the bed next to her, looking at the lines of Cora’s sketch of the skyline, as seen from the window.

“I talked to Laura about it.” He does feel better; the combination of Laura’s listening and Cora’s presence and encouraging him to actually do things… but the song, it brings it all up again.

It’s not that he expected Stiles to contact him; they weren’t friends, not really, despite how much Derek thought they might have been going there. Maybe Stiles hasn’t even seen his interview; it’s not like charity galas are big news things, especially for LA folks. And Stiles is off promoting his new album and playing concerts all over the country and stuff; it’s not like he really had the time. Derek knows Stiles never wanted to work with him again, so it’s not like Stiles would go actively looking for press about Derek.

“Start the song again?”

He listens to the song. It has a different feel to the confident, sexy bravado of Stiles’ previous music. Stiles is earnest, open, vulnerable. And the music… it’s like he’s taken cues from Derek’s acoustic nature and blended it with his electronic rock style, and it works.

In some ways it’s a typical break-up song, bittersweet and longing, but there’s a bit in the chorus that jumps out to Derek.

_Tell it to me straight, would you really be with me or are you making me wait…_

“What do you think he means?” Derek asks.

Cora gives him a small smile. “Do you have to ask?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with us this week-- tomorrow is the last chapter! :)


	5. Chapter 5

It turns out that Stiles Stilinski actually is in town. On Friday night he’s opening for that new indie group Puddle and Fish, with a few of his new hits.

Of course, Cora has tickets already, but she’s going with her friends, all hanging out in the VIP booth. She offers Derek one of them, but he doesn’t want her to have to kick out one of her friends. It’s the beginning of a week-long bachelorette party, and they’re a tight-knit group, with plans to stay out all night and then Cora’s off to the Bahamas with them. Derek doesn’t want to get in the way of their celebration.

The only tickets left are on the floor; the basic ticket that’s open for anyone willing to squeeze into the pit. Derek doesn’t care. He likes it better; no one recognizes him in the dark, or at least he thinks so. He stops to take a selfie with one fan, but everyone is focused on the stage, the lights, the music.

Derek manages to squeeze towards the front. The two other opening acts are forgettable; a stand up comic, an acapella group doing covers of Star Wars music.

And Stiles.

He looks different, less California hipster bro than usual. That always seemed like he was playing a part to Derek, like it was what people expected of him from his music. The constant flow of “dudes” and the snapbacks and the tank tops. Not that Derek’s studied Stiles and how he’s presented throughout his career and knows any of those outfits intimately, but… the Stiles that joked around with him in his house, the one that had a whole room with Marvel action figures and comic books framed on the wall, that seems a lot more like the Stiles on the stage now.

Stiles is wearing jeans and a graphic t-shirt with a comic panel that says “POW!” His hair is barely styled, and the green plaid shirt looks faded enough it might actually belong to him, and not some stylist’s idea of what he should look like.

There are no lights, no explosions, just a small backup band, and in the spotlight, a single stool and a microphone.

Stiles sits down and waits for the crowd to quiet.

“Hey, everyone,” Stiles says. “So you might have heard this one on the radio, it just came out.”

More cheers. The giant screen in back of Stiles pans to the audience, with the endless amount of signs declaring love and devotion. Derek is surprised to see one with his name on it; it’s a boy holding a painted cardboard sign that reads _I BELIEVE IN YOU AND DEREK._

Stiles glances at it, but he doesn’t say anything, just picks up the guitar and starts playing.

The song has a melancholy quality it doesn’t have on the radio, and seeing Stiles perform— his usual electric self is focused to complete stillness. He closes his eyes and sings, and sings, and there’s no question that he heard what Derek said on that interview.

But why the radio silence? Why not just call Derek? Why write an entire song?

Derek doesn’t have any answers. He claps and cheers with the rest of the audience when the song is over, and then Stiles introduces the headlining act.

Stiles winks at the audience, and then disappears backstage.

Derek pushes his way through the crowd. He’s not going to lose him again.

 

* * *

 

Stiles loves performing in front of a live crowd. Always has. And, if it was a good show, that high continues well into the night and if he’s opening, he likes to try to sneak into the crowd and hope that people are too preoccupied to recognize him and just enjoy the music.

He’s a little bit famous for it, actually. Instagram and Tumblr and Twitter are full of pictures of him dancing to the main act after he goes on and people’s captions that are basically keyboard smashes. His management keeps telling him he’ll have to stop eventually, that he’ll get too big, that his one bodyguard won’t be enough to protect him from the crowd.

But, hey, he’s not that famous yet. So, fuck it, he’s going to head out there and dance. Head over to the merch table and sign some t-shirts. Talk to people. Connect with the fans.

In just a second. He feels a little woozy. He’s just… he’s a little tired. It’s been nonstop concerts at smaller venues and he’s at the stage where when people hear he’s in town, they will ask him to at least perform a few songs as a “Surprise Guest Opener” and despite his success this summer, he is still young in the business. Still has to worry about just being a fad. Still has to _always_ say yes.

Performing is good though. It’s fun and exciting and it creates new fans and he _loves_ it.

He just really has to stop ending with that song. It’s his big hit right now, it’s what the people want to hear, but he should at least move it up in the lineup because he always feels like shit after. Or he should have never made the mistake of playing it for his agent. It was… the song was personal. Too real.

When he agreed to put it on the EP and perform it live, he had hoped that maybe playing it over and over would make it lose its impact.

It has not lost its impact.

It leaves him feeling hurt and sad and _lonely_.

But he’s fine.

He takes a breath and chugs one of the water bottles they have. It’s time to stop moping and get out there.

There’s a knock on his door.

“One second,” Stiles calls, rising and leaning towards the mirror. Damn, he is still not used to how stage makeup makes him look. He grabs a towel and wipes at his face. “And, I keep telling you, Darrell, I don’t need a bodyguard out there but if you insist on coming, _try_ to blend in a little bit. Please. For me.”

Darrell doesn’t answer but that’s probably because Darrell never answers Stiles, particularly when he’s making ridiculous requests. Stiles would think that Darrell hates him, but Darrell has actually smiled a whole two times at him and Stiles recently found out Darrell was offered more money to go guard some politician and turned it down.

The knock comes again.

“Alright, alright,” Stiles says, a little confused. Darrell is not usually in a rush for him to go and “put himself in danger,” as he likes to say. “Jeez, dude, just—”

He cuts off as he opens the door.

Because it is not Darrell standing outside.

It is _Derek Hale_.

Stiles’ brain goes offline.

“Hey,” Derek says and it’s soft and hesitant and Stiles isn’t sure what’s happening.

“Derek,” he repeats dumbly. Maybe that water had actually been a beer or something. Maybe this is a… drunk hallucination. “You’re… not Darrell.” There. That about explains his thought process at the moment.

This is Darrell’s fault. He’s supposed to protect Stiles. Stiles gave him a raise recently!

“No, I— I’m not,” Derek says, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m— Stiles, I— can I come in?”

Derek turns to glance down the hall and Stiles realizes that anyone could see them and—

Right. Derek doesn’t want to be seen with him.

“Sure,” he says, turning. He takes the opportunity to take a breath and try to get himself under some sort of control. He is okay. He is going to get through… whatever this is and then get back out there. Maybe fire Darrell. “What can I do for you?”

He waits until after he says it to turn back around and face Derek, who is closing the door behind him.

“I heard your song,” Derek says bluntly and Stiles fights not to flinch. Somehow he was hoping that Derek wouldn’t hear it. Because there’s no way that he can convince Derek it’s not about him. It is. It’s—

_Vulnerable in a way that Stilinski usually isn’t, really._ That’s what the press is saying about it.

“Oh, cool,” Stiles says, bobbing his head up and down and reaching for another water bottle. Fuck, this is hard. He’s spent _hours_ imagining what he would say to Derek if he could or what Derek would say and now he just… He wants to throw himself at Derek but he knows he can’t.

“It’s really good,” Derek offers and then takes a breath as if he’s gearing up for something. “Like… amazing.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says shortly. He needs this to be over. He’s just started to pull himself together a bit.

They stand there in awkward silence for a bit. Stiles takes a chug of water. Swipes at his face again with the towel he never actually dropped. Tells himself he is still sticking to plan.

“Stiles,” Derek starts. “Why did you say you would never want to work with me again?”

Stiles freezes. Derek sounds… he sounds _hurt_. And unsure and confused and— it makes no sense. It’s one thing to try to seem like a good guy in the press but to do it to _Stiles_?

“Well,” Stiles says. He hasn’t seen Derek in a month; he’s been sitting with these feelings, letting them fester into something else. His own voice is cold and unrecognizable to him. “I figured working together would be hard to do considering you don’t even want to be _seen_ with me.”

Derek’s face goes from hurt to confused. It only makes Stiles angrier.

“Seriously, dude,” Stiles says, finally throwing the towel down. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Find out? What are you—”

“I _met_ with Peter,” Stiles says. “The morning after the VMAs. He called me in and told me in no uncertain terms that you did not want to even be seen with me so… yeah, forgive me for going ahead and announcing that we would not be writing any more songs.”

“Oh my _God.”_

Derek really is good at acting. He sounds horrified.

“Look, Derek,” Stiles says. “I’m… I’m sorry if you’ve been getting heat or whatever because people think the song is about you. But just deny it and move on. The rumors will die down so—”

“No, Stiles, that’s not—” Derek takes a step closer and then stops. Probably because Stiles jerks backwards as soon as he does. “Stiles, please. Just—”

“Dude, c’mon, don’t do this,” Stiles asks. Maybe begs. “I get it. It was just a fling for you. That’s fine. I’m okay. I’m—”

“Please listen to me,” Derek says, desperate now. “I did want to hang out with you, I did. It’s just Peter wanted us to _fake date_.”

Stiles goes still. Derek keeps talking.

“Peter wanted us hang out and have the paps take pictures of us as some kind… _gimmick_ to entice in fans and I would never do that!” Derek takes a step away and this time, Stiles is the one who follows him. Just a step. Because Derek… Derek sounds passionate and sincere and— and— this might mean— “Not to them or to you. So I told him no. No to _lying_ about it. I didn’t want to fake date you, Stiles.”

Stiles feels like the ground just dropped out from beneath him. Derek turns back to him and moves closer.

“I wanted to just… date you. For real.”

“What?” Stiles says. His voice is breathless. Shaky. Thank God he already finished performing.

“I didn’t want to keep just hooking up and I didn’t want to fake date. I wanted to… fuck, I wanted to pick you up and bring you flowers and take you to the movies and— I wanted to do all of it, Stiles. All that cheesy, stupid stuff that you make fun of me for singing about.”

Derek is blushing and says he _wanted to date Stiles._ A month ago. But if he… he is here, though. Had come here after only listening to a song.

“And now?” Stiles asks. He has to at least ask. Derek frowns at him. “You keep saying _wanted_. Past tense. What about… what about now?”

Derek looks down. “Well, I— I mean, if you— I know it’s been a month and it wouldn’t be— but the song—”

Stiles can’t take it anymore. He takes the last step forward and he remembers this part.

He reaches for Derek and drags him in hard enough that Derek sort of stumbles, but it doesn’t matter because they _know_ this part. Their mouths meet and it’s desperate and happy and they are both smiling too much for it to be smooth but it’s warm and good and _real_ and Stiles cannot believe this. He can’t believe he gets to have this. Gets to have Derek and Derek wants him and it had all been so stupid and it doesn’t even matter because Derek’s hands are sliding up under his stupidly tight performance t-shirt and—

“Stiles?” Stiles jumps at the knock on the door. Derek drops his face to Stiles’ neck, groaning. The voice calls again: “Stiles!”

“Fucking— Yes, Darrell. I’m here. I’m alive.” Stiles calls. “No need to panic!”

“Who the fuck is Darrell?” Derek grunts before continuing to nip at Stiles’ throat.

“Bodyguard. Fucking useless bodyguard. I’m firing him tomorrow,” Stiles promises.

“I heard that,” Darrell says. “I require two weeks notice. I’d also like to point it that I am the one who let Mr. Hale in.”

“Ugh, fine!” Stiles says, giggling and shoving Derek away. “You’re not fired.”

“Very good, sir. But they’ve asked that you clear the room for the next act.”

“I changed my mind. You are fired.”

“Don’t kill the messenger, sir.”

Stiles can’t help but laugh. Because he just _knows_ Darrell is smiling and also, Derek’s hand is now high enough to tickle at his ribs. He ignores Darrell to grab at Derek’s hand and then pulls him closer for a kiss.

“I’m leaving again, sir,” Darrell says. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes to collect you. Please have clothes on.”

Stiles doesn’t bother responding.

 

* * *

 

It takes a long while to stop kissing Derek; they keep laughing even though Stiles knows he has to pack up his stuff. But then Derek keeps smiling at him, and then Stiles wants to kiss him again, and they’re back where they started.

Finally Stiles has all his stuff, and he hands it to Darrell with instructions to bring it back to his hotel. Darrell is waiting for instructions, and Stiles can’t think of a better way to end this evening than to take Derek back to the hotel, too.

Stiles’ blood is thrumming under his skin, he pulls Derek forward to whisper urgently, “I’ll have the car meet us out back. My hotel is only like, half an hour away.”

Derek kisses him, slow and insistent. “We can also just take the subway. I’m a few stops down.”

Stiles pauses to look at him. “You… took the subway to see my show? Your family has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, dude.”

Derek laughs. “Come on.”

They say bye to Darrell, get their coats and duck out of the venue, slipping into the velvety softness of the night. Lights and people scatter around them, and if anyone recognizes them no one says anything. No one whips out their phone to take a photo, no one asks for autographs. They’re just two guys walking down the street, heading down into the subway..

Derek sits close to him, his eyes twinkling, and Stiles knocks his knee against his, unable to help the giddy feeling that rises inside him. There are other couples on the subway, holding hands or leaning on each others’ shoulders. Stiles wants to cuddle up to Derek, but he knows he can’t. Not that anybody really on the train is paying attention to them, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. He doesn’t want to jeopardize their relationship, not now when it’s just getting off the ground.

It’s okay. Stiles is fine with it, he can be Derek’s secret, he can play the “friend” if anyone asks, they were hanging out after the show, that’s all. He wants to be with Derek, and if playing it straight is what it takes, then that’s what he’ll do.

They are indeed, only two stops away, and they exit in the Park Slope neighborhood, and Stiles grins at the trees softly swaying in the night wind.

Derek is walking next to him, look unbearably handsome in the light of the streetlamps.

Their knuckles graze, and Stiles wants so badly to hold Derek’s hand.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he smiles back at Derek, follows him as he unlocks a bright yellow door in a red bricked building.

“So this is my place,” Derek says, almost shy. “I own this building.”

It’s industrial-chic, with hanging light bulbs and exposed brick. Stiles can see stairs leading into darkness, and the door to the outside world closes.

He grabs Derek by the shirt and kisses him fiercely, presses him against the wall, bodies colliding together.

Derek moans, grabs Stiles by the ass and squeezes, returning the kiss in equal fervor, until he pulls back.

“What, why’d you stop? I’d always wanted to bang on a stairwell, and these are excellent looking stairs.”

“As fun as that sounds, I actually have a few tenants,” Derek says, blushing. “I live at the top. Come on.”

Oh. Right. They still might be seen.

There’s an old school cage-style elevator that takes them to the penthouse floor, and then they’re in Derek’s loft.

They fumble inside, jackets and shirts falling to the floor. They get a bit tangled when it comes to their pants; Stiles’ jeans are really tight, and Derek laughs and laughs, helping him squirm out of them.

Stiles kicks off his boxers, his eyes adjusting to the dark and he looks up and— “You have a stripper pole in your apartment?”

“This used to be a fire station. They filled in the area around the poles on all the floors; it’s just for decoration now, it’s not for stripping—”

“But it _can_ be—”

“You’re already naked, Stiles. Do you want to put your clothes back on and then strip?” Derek chuckles.

Stiles snorts and reaches for Derek’s zipper, pulling it down with a satisfying _sfzzzzzzzzp._ Derek’s hard, even though they’ve done nothing more than kiss, really.

Stiles pulls Derek’s cock out eagerly. He’s hot and sensitive to the touch, and he makes the sweetest noise when Stiles takes him into his mouth. Stiles wants to give it his all, wants Derek to fuck his face, wants to take Derek apart—

Derek groans. “Stiles, you know I’m gonna come too quickly if you do that, you’re too fucking good at this, you know that—”

Stiles hums in response, and Derek trembles.

“Stiles, I want— I want you—”

Stiles takes a moment to pull off and wink. “You’ve got me.” He takes this opportunity to pull Derek’s pants off him and they’re both naked. He admires the hard lines of Derek’s body, the softness of his skin, the way his cock juts out, flushed red with arousal.

Derek looks gorgeous spread out on his hardwood floor, and Stiles thinks about that video he did for _Maybe Tomorrow,_ how brave he was to bare his body and his soul to the world. It’s nerve-wracking, putting yourself out there.

He stills; they’ve never done this, and now suddenly Stiles is nervous, his brash confidence gone.

Derek is taking him in, all his bare skin, probably thinking about how pasty Stiles is, luckily it’s dark in Derek’s loft. He blushes, rubbing the back at his neck, but Derek just gives him this slow, curving smile.

“Stiles—” Derek takes his hand and pulls him close, and their mouths meet again.

Derek’s body is a hot contrast to the cold floor, and every bit of friction sends a jolt of pleasure to Stiles’ cock. They rut against each other, kissing and grinding on the floor, and Stiles is about to go for Derek’s cock again—

Derek catches him by the chin. “Do you want to—”

Stiles kisses him, hard, biting his bottom lip and Derek makes a deep, desperate sound. The kiss turns dirty easily; hot, open-mouthed, and Derek’s tongue is heavy and demanding.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Derek finally exhales. “We haven’t done that, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Would you—”

_“Yes,”_ Stiles says. “We should—”

“Bed—”

“Lube—”

Derek’s bedroom is upstairs, at the top of a ridiculous spiral staircase that in any other circumstance Stiles would think is cool, but it’s dark and he’s horny and he hasn’t seen Derek in a month and if he stops touching Derek he think he’ll explode.

They only make it up a few steps before Derek is pulling him close, kissing him and running his hands down his back, and they grind against the hard metal railing. Another few steps up the curve and Stiles can’t help giving Derek’s ass a playful smack, because it’s right _there_ in front of him. Derek makes a sharp, pleased noise of surprise and yeah, Stiles is definitely gonna have to file that away under _things Derek likes._

Then Derek is pulling him up the final curve of the stairs, and there’s a massive bed right in the middle of the room. They fall into it, fall into each other, all mouths and hands and arms and legs and ass, oh, fuck, Derek’s ass is glorious.

Stiles gets Derek on his back, gets right between his thighs, spreading his legs and Derek is quivering, looking at Stiles with such trust and adoration. He opens Derek up on the flat of his tongue, dives into it. Stiles gets lost in the way Derek says his name, the way he makes soft little sighs of pleasure, the musky taste of his skin.

Derek’s hands hover above his head, like he wants to touch—

“Yes, please, do it,” Stiles says, grabbing his hand and bringing it to his hair.

Derek groans, pulling Stiles’ hair and Stiles loves the pain-pleasure jolt and then Derek is working his hands through his hair, massaging his head, and it’s wonderful. He eats him out without abandon, and then moves to his cock and then back to his hole, laving attention and adoration until Derek is a demanding, worn-out mess.

Derek’s cock is hard and dripping onto his stomach, and Stiles ignores it in favor of finding the lube.

“Under the bed,” Derek says, out of breath.

There’s a near-empty bottle of lube under the bed, and Stiles lets the rest of it spill into his hands. He warms it up on his fingers, smirking at Derek. “Been keeping busy?”

“Busy thinking of you,” Derek says with a groan.

Stiles takes his time opening him up; Derek already looks drunk on pleasure, and he pants out, “Stiles, don’t you want to f—”

“Impatient,” Stiles says cheekily, and he kisses Derek’s thigh.

There’s a brand-new unopened box of condoms also under the bed, and it takes a second to get it open, since he’s got three fingers in a begging Derek.

Finally he’s got a condom on and Stiles is pulled by the hand up, and Derek kisses him wholeheartedly. “Please,” he says.

Stiles pushes in, and he nearly can’t stand it. Derek’s body is hot, welcoming and tight, and Stiles thrusts forward, crying out Derek’s name and curses and exaltations and he can’t exactly remember what he’s saying.

“Yes, yes, me too,” Derek says, holding him close. Their foreheads touch.

Derek takes his hand; their fingers tangle. Stiles holds on, and it’s too much, the way Derek’s legs wrap around his waist, Derek’s hands anchoring him, the way his mouth falls open and his eyelashes flutter.

Derek comes with a cry of relief, closing his eyes and whispering Stiles’ name like a prayer. Stiles is barely keeping it together in the first place, and seeing Derek lose it is enough to send him over the edge.

They lay there, Stiles resting his head on Derek’s chest. His heartbeat is loud, like a drum, and Derek has a hand running down Stiles’ back, stroking in a soft rhythm.

“Did you mean it?” Derek asks.

“Hm?”

“People say things during sex, it’s okay. I just— _I_ meant it. I wanted you to know. You don’t have to say it back, and I’m not expecting you to—”

Stiles laughs and curls in closer, wrapping his arm around Derek’s waist. He doesn’t remember saying it, but he must have. “I love you, Derek,” he says.

Derek exhales, and he tips Stiles up by the chin for a kiss. “I love you, too.”

“Mmhm.” Stiles nuzzles into Derek’s neck. “We love each other. We’re great. We’re also fucking fantastic at cuddling. Why haven’t we done this before?”

“Because we both thought it was just sex?”

“Stupid us,” Stiles says.

Derek laughs and says something, but Stiles is already drifting off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Derek wakes up first the next morning. He wakes up first and his bed is warm (too hot, really, but he is not complaining) and Stiles is still _there_.

The considerate thing to do would be to let him sleep but Derek… Derek is ready. To start their day. Maybe to start their _lives_.

“Stiles,” he curls closer and drapes himself over Stiles’ back, digging his chin to Stiles’ shoulder blade. “Stiles.”

“G’way,” Stiles grunts. Derek laughs. Feels Stiles stir a little bit more.

“Stiles.” He traces the moles on Stiles’ bare back, presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“‘m a rockstar,” Stiles mumbles. “I sleep ‘til three.”

Derek looks at the clock. It’s a little after eleven. That’s plenty late. Even if Stiles did perform a concert last night. And the one before. And a few before that if his schedule is to be believed. Derek has never realized how lucky he is to already be seen as a “big name” in music. Even when they were starting out as a family band, his parents had always made sure they had plenty of down time.

“C’mon,” he says, sliding up to kiss the back of Stiles’ neck. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Stiles opens one eye.

“Sex?”

“Food,” Derek corrects. It would be a weird thing to say aloud, but Stiles is skinnier than he was before. Derek can feel his ribs more easily and he knows how stressful being on the road can be, how little time talk shows leave for things like breakfast and lunch.

Stiles’ eye slides shut again, but he smiles into his pillow.

“Mmm, I like food,” he says.

“Food is good,” Derek agrees, kissing Stiles’ neck again.

“What kind of food do you have?”

Derek frowns, lifting himself enough to twist his body and stare towards his kitchen. The truth is he doesn’t have that much food. He had some groceries delivered last week but Cora ate most of it before she left. He doesn’t exactly have any breakfast food.

“Uh, peaches,” he says. “Maybe some grapes.”

“Want pancakes,” Stiles says and he sounds more awake now. At least, he is stretching all his limbs for a moment before curling back into the bed. “And eggs. Make me pancakes and eggs. And bacon.”

“We’ll have to go out,” Derek says, rolling away. He likes the sound of that. Brunch with Stiles. It’s very New York. He wonders how much time Stiles has actually spent in New York. “I’ll call a place.”

“No,” Stiles says, rolling over as well. His hair is sticking up on one side. He has a pillow imprint on his face. “No, that won’t work.”

“Sure it will,” Derek says. “Even places that don’t usually do reservations do them for me.” He leans over and kisses Stiles on the mouth. “I’m a rockstar too, remember?”

Stiles laughs at him and lets Derek kiss him again and then shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes.

“Still won’t work,” he says. “We can’t go out. Let me see what you have in your fridge. I’m not a bad cook.”

He stands and Derek frowns after him.

“What?”

“I’m not a bad cook,” Stiles says. “It’s how I paid Scott back when I lived with him when I got screwed over by my first agency. I couldn’t help pay for rent, but I learned to cook. As long as you have eggs, flour, and milk, I’m good to go.”

“No,” Derek says, shaking his head. Stiles’ eyes still aren’t completely open. He’s moving around Derek’s room finding clothes like a zombie. Feeling around rather than looking. “No, I mean, why can’t we go out?”

Stiles finally looks over at him.

“Uh, dude,” he says. “You aren’t out. I mean… sure, maybe parts of the world think you are but… not official. And as long as it’s not official, you can deflect if you need to but—” he waves a hand between them while Derek is stuck staring in shock. “You and me at eleven on a Saturday morning will not be subtle.”

Stiles finds some boxers (they might actually be Derek’s) and drags them on. He doesn’t seem upset by this at all.

“Oh, and, you have a hickey on your neck the size of a small island,” he says. “Sorry about that, by the way. Though, I blame you. We could have been having sex for weeks. You made me build up all my sexual frustration. Like a sex volcano.” He spins around to look for a shirt next.

“Stiles,” Derek says. Stiles hums at him. “Stiles, I don’t want to stay in.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before—”

“No, I mean I want to come out.”

Stiles finally goes still. He straightens and looks at him. His eyes snap to Derek’s and he frowns.

“I’m not asking you to do that.” He sounds… careful. Derek doesn’t like it.

“I know,” Derek says. “I just want to. For me.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just looks at him. Finally,

“You shouldn’t rush into this,” he says.

Derek frowns. “I’m not—”

“Look,” Stiles says, holding up his hands. “I’m not saying I want you to stay in the closet. I’m saying that if you think you _have_ to right now or even if it’s just a spontaneous decision, you should… you should wait. Think about it. There’s no rush.”

There _is_ a rush, Derek thinks. There’s a rush because he loves Stiles and it’s been months and it’s been _years_ before that. Years where the label told him no and then he didn’t see the point and then _Peter_ and—

“I—I didn’t mean to come out when I did,” Stiles says, voice dipping lower. “It wasn’t… I didn’t sit down and make the decision. You shouldn’t have to do this like that. You should sit down. Make the decision.”

Derek’s heart sinks. Not for himself. For Stiles. Because he knows how Stiles came out. The whole world knew. There were grainy pictures and Stiles had done a talk show and smirked at the camera and said, “Yeah? What does it matter?” and, God, he was only _twenty-one_ when that happened. The whole industry thought it was planned.

That didn’t change the facts, though. The fact that Derek _had_ sat down and made the decision and he chose _Stiles_. He chose everything that went with that.

“Alright,” Stiles says, taking his silence for acceptance. “So point me in the direction of your kitchen, Der-bear. I got this.”

Derek shakes his head fondly. He is going to do this. He is going to choose himself. He is going to choose happiness.

“Stiles,” he says, stepping closer. “Your shirt is on inside out.”

“Okay, well, you try waking up at the asscrack of dawn and dressing in the pitch black.”

“You need to fix it,” Derek says calmly. “Because we are going out. For brunch. Together.”

“But, I just—”

“You said it was my choice,” Derek says. “I already made the decision, Stiles. If that clip didn’t get you to talk to me, I was going to come out anyway. I’ve written like, eight different statements since I went solo. I’ve always wanted to do it, but well, I always let Peter and the label talk me out of it. I didn’t know you were going to be in town, Stiles. I was going to make an official statement on Monday, you know. I want to be out, and more than that I want to be with you without any secrets.”

Stiles is staring at him. Eyes wide and shocked but there’s a blush spreading across his cheeks and a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth and it tells Derek everything he needs to know.

Derek kisses him. Hard and biting and just for a moment. Determined.

“C’mon,” Derek says. “Let’s go to brunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messages from the both of us:
> 
> bleep0bleep: special thanks to petals, for working on this with me over... such a long time! thank you for being awesome, and it was so much fun writing with you, and finishing each others thoughts. thanks leda for the inspiring art as always, and enabling us to finish, and to all of you amazing readers for all your amazing comments and feedback this week!
> 
> petals: CARRIE IS THE BEST! Seriously, thank you so much for all your help- it was so much fun to just like write half a scene and then BAM the other half would be done! Also, none of this would be possible without Leda's art and encouragement and M's wonderful beta-skills. And, of course, thank you to everyone that came along with us for this crazy week of posting!
> 
> Again, thank you from the both of us! It took us over a year, but we were happy to bring this fic to you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> You can find the authors here:  
> bleep0bleep: [tumblr](http://bleep-bleep.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/bleep0bleep)  
> petals42: [tumblr](http://petals42.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://twitter.com/petals42_tumblr)
> 
> And of course, the art from that one drunken conversation, literally this fic was born from the three of us talking and all of us had been drinking and laughing about... none of us can remember the specifics, but it resulted in Leda drawing [this.](http://andavs.tumblr.com/post/150698730722/a-dumb-drunken-doodle-for-what-was-supposed-to-be)


End file.
